Consequences of Love and War
by Sashile
Summary: Casefic. Follows "Truths and Covert Lies", which follows "Of Jews and Gentiles". A Navy physician is abducted from Afghanistan, and in the course of the investigation, things are discovered, both about the case and the team investigating it. Tiva
1. Chapter 1: Opening

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 1--Opening**

_Disclaimer: All the standard stuff. I don't own NCIS. I don't have any sort of affiliation with the show, the characters, the network, the United States Navy (except for occasionally working over at National Naval Medical Center, but even that will soon be Walter Reed National Medical Center, so that hardly counts...), etc, etc. _

_Timeline: Takes place about a year and a half after _Truths and Covert Lies_, which puts it a few months before _Lethal Fractures_._

_Summary: A Navy physician is abducted from her clinic at Camp Phoenix, Afghanistan, while her husband is talking to her via webcam. As the investigation unfolds, they discover that things aren't always as they appear to be, both within the case and within the team investigating it._

_A/N: I have only a few chapters of this written, and writing it is very slow going. It could be worse; before the Bell Commission rules, interns and residents consistently worked more than eighty hours a week; now we're limited to those eighty, which gives me a little bit more time to be writing. Unfortunately, it means I'm often too tired to actually be creative enough to write anything. What I'm trying to say is that this is subject to random stoppages and an unpredictable posting schedule until I'm on a more laid-back rotation (I started my internship in the Medical Intensive Care Unit; how's that for trial by fire?). I wasn't going to start posting yet, but I tend to make decisions that don't always make sense when I return home after a sleepless 30-hour on-call shift._

* * *

Peter Kirkan was in mid-sentence of the article he had to finish before 0500 when he saw the familiar Skype pop-up icon appear on his desktop. Although he was normally very glad to talk to the one person he talked to on Skype, he frowned at the interruption. He usually wouldn't mind being interrupted by his wife, deadline or no deadline, but it was hardly her usual time to be calling, and if there was one thing Dr. Alyse Aachen was, it was punctual. His confusion quickly turned into concern, and he hastily hit the 'connect' button.

"Hey," he said, that concern now evident as his wife's face appeared. "What's going on?"

Alyse's bright blue eyes went from the middle of the screen to the webcam above the monitor and back. In that brief glance, he could see not only the extra moisture around her eyes, but also how red and puffy they were. He felt his heart drop; this was not going to be an easy conversation, for either of them. "Oh, God, Pete," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper and shaking. "Oh, God."

"What is it, Allie?" Not for the first time, he wished they could be together, but for once of this current deployment, his thoughts had nothing to do with sex or the empty right side of the bed. It was killing him to see his wife like this and not be able to put his arms around her and tell her that it would be okay. Hell, at this point, he didn't even know if it _was_ going to be okay. "Allie, what happened?"

She wiped at both of her eyes with the heels of her hands, which made him realize for the first time that she was wearing scrubs instead of her uniform. At—he had to glance at the clock and do some rapid calculations to figure out the time in Kabul—0820 she was usually wearing the digital camouflage that one would expect to see on a Marine or Navy medical personnel stationed with Marines, still working sick-call clinic. She was rarely in scrubs at that time, which made his concern deepen to an all new level. "There was… an attack," she finally said, her voice still shaking. "A few hours ago. I was asleep, but I was on-call, and I went out…" Her voice trailed off again, and Kirkan felt that sinking of his heart again. He didn't know who this deployment to Afghanistan was worse for—his wife, the Navy physician currently in Kabul; or him, safe and sound in their Bethesda condo. He was pretty sure the last six months had taken six years off his lifespan with his concern for her, and most of the time, she just laughed it off with that damned cute laugh of hers. Alyse was the definition of an adrenaline junkie; she loved running around with Marines. A former Marine himself, he had seen enough to know that that was the _last_ place he wanted his wife.

She wiped at her eyes again in an effort to compose herself, and when she spoke again, her was voice a little stronger, a little more steady. "It was a convoy, not far from the gates," she continued. "The corpsmen were taking the more critical into the hospital. I was out there trying to triage." She stopped talking again, and her eyes darted briefly off-screen before returning.

"Allie—," he began before cutting himself off. The last thing she needed at the moment was another reminder that as a physician—and an internal medicine physician, at that, not an ER doc—her place was in the hospital. He hated to say it, but the corpsmen were a hell of a lot more expendable. There were more of them, the Navy hadn't put half a million dollars into training them, and none of them were his wife. But Alyse was a good officer, and she rarely sent her men out somewhere she wouldn't go.

"There was one kid—one driver," she continued, her voice now having a far-away edge to it. "Not a kid. He's only eighteen years old and probably still only shaves once a week, but he's a Marine, not a kid…" He could see her swallowing, trying to compose herself. "He was awake and talking when I got to him, but he had a massive hematoma in the temporal region and I knew the prognosis was poor." He wished she didn't sound like she swallowed a medical dictionary when she got distracted, but didn't stop her, knowing that the words were an effort to distance herself from what she had seen. "He asked… he asked if I was the doc, and I told him I was, and he asked how it looked, and I told him we'd get him into the hospital and he'd be okay…" Again she stopped and wiped at her eyes, and again Kirkan wished that he could be there for her. She had seen more than her fair share of death in medical school and residency, but even her year as a flight surgeon on an aircraft carrier couldn't prepare her for what she would see in combat. "And then he moved, and I saw the hole in his chest, and I knew that he wouldn't be okay. And I… And I pressed the ABD pads to his chest and tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood, and he began to shake and he asked if he was dying. And I didn't say anything, I just stood there and tried to hold pressure and knew that it wasn't enough. I couldn't even call for a litter crew and I just stood there… I stood there and watched him die. He was alive, and then he wasn't, and I was there and I didn't do enough."

"Allie," he said gently. He was probably the only person in the world who could get away with calling her by her childhood nickname; even her own parents had started calling her 'Alyse' sometime around med school graduation. Even though he had met her after that, he always felt 'Allie' fit her so much better. "Rule number one—"

She gave a bitter laugh, interrupting him. "Rule number one: young men die. Rule number two: doctors can't change rule number one. I know my damned _M*A*S*H_ rules, Pete." Another bitter laugh escaped from her mouth. "God, I wish this was _M*A*S*H _and that I had a tent with a still and I could just drink until I didn't feel any more pain, but this is goddamned Afghanistan and there's no damn alcohol in theater." She shook her head. "Well, none I can get my hands on. I know there's a hell of a lot of drinking amongst the enlisted Marines, but I can't exactly walk over to their barracks and ask for a shot." She looked away again. "Damn it all, anyway," she muttered.

"Go to bed, Allie," he said gently. "Just go to sleep. Everything will look better when you wake up."

She shook her head. "God, Pete, it's never going to get any better. I've been her for six goddamned months and I still can't handle it. I can't handle this." She lapsed into silence. If it weren't for the heaviness of the mood, he would be teasing her about her profanity; she claimed she never swore until she started med school, and she still stuck to the milder of the curses. "I wasn't trained for this," she muttered. "I'm a goddamned internist. I'm not a surgeon. I can give you a ninety-nine point differential diagnosis on chest pain, but I can't do a damned thing about it when the pain is coming from a massive traumatic wound." He remained silent on that particular point, just because he happened to agree with her. He was actually the first of the two of them to say those words, that they were sending doctors into combat who weren't ready for it. She had been so furious with his words that she had emailed _Stars and Stripes_ and demanded his contact information and sent a rather scathing email back to him. He had invited her to call so they could discuss his research over the phone, not realizing that she was on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Atlantic and calling, while possible, was easier said than done. They continued emailing back and forth, and the next thing he knew, he was falling for a woman he had never met. Lucky for him—maybe not so much for her—they discovered when she returned to dry land that their apartments were less than a mile from each other. He had laughed when they met in person the first time; the mental image he had formed of her was definitely not one of the woman who had glanced around the bar trying to figure who she was supposed to meet. He thought she would be tall, larger than life, and, well, older, even though he knew she was just a lieutenant only a couple of years out of med school. Instead, he found himself introducing himself to a petite brunette with piercing blue eyes and features that made her look closer to twenty than her real twenty-eight.

"I can't handle this, Pete," she echoed softly. "I just want to come home."

"Believe me, Allie, there's no place I'd rather you be than right here." Even as he said those words, he had the website of the florist associated with USAA up on his computer. It wasn't cheap getting things to Afghanistan in a reasonable amount of time, but if he couldn't be there, at the very least his credit card purchases should be. "But if you get on a plane, 'home' is not where the Navy is going to let you go."

"I know," she said softly. "This morning, though… Maybe critical care and pulmonology isn't for me. Maybe I can't handle it. Maybe I should be looking at other fellowships. Like rheumatology. There are no emergencies in rheumatology, and I can work predictable hours and could be home and raise babies…" Her voice trailed off again. That line of thinking prompted Kirkan to add an extra large box of chocolates to the order. She had wanted to do critical care, to be an ICU doctor, since she was in high school; it was part of her 'adrenaline junkie' personality. And while they had talked about having kids, it was still a plan for 'some point in the future'. For her to be talking about giving up her ICU dreams for the sake of children they didn't know when would be born, was a sign that this was hitting her hard.

"I'm sorry, Allie," he murmured. There was nothing else he could say that would come close to being adequate. Just those three words, however, had her eyes welling with fresh tears.

"Pete…" Her voice was filled with sorrow and a little bit regret. "I'm sorry for taking this out on you. I know you have that article to finish."

"Hey," he said forcefully, feeling a little silly talking into the webcam, "_never_ apologize for letting me know you've had a bad day. That's what I'm here for. It's just killing me that I can't actually be there for you when you need me."

She nodded. "I know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She managed a shaky smile. "How did I get lucky enough to meet you?"

He gave her a large grin that he didn't completely feel. "Because you were bored in the infirmary on an aircraft carrier and happened to browse through _Stars and Stripes_?"

She laughed to that, a genuine laugh. "I miss you," she said simply.

"I miss you, too," he replied, hitting 'send' on the embarrassingly large order of flowers, a teddy bear, and large box of chocolates. "Stay safe, okay?"

She nodded. "I love you, Pete." He was about to reply that he loved her too when he saw something shadowy behind her on the webcam. He frowned and leaned closer to the screen to try to figure out what it could be. "What is it?" he heard her ask.

"Allie, behind you!" he quickly exclaimed as the form of a man came into focus. Her eyes widened in alarm as she started to turn, but the man was faster, throwing a dark hood over her head. Kirkan could hear her struggling and trying to scream. "Allie!" he shouted at the computer.

The last thing he saw before the connection was closed was the masked face of a man leaning over the keyboard to end the conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 2**

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and well-wishes from the opening chapter! I'm so glad you enjoyed it. As for me, I'm currently exhausted from being at the hospital for far too long dealing with patients that are far too sick (seriously, I don't see how anyone would consider critical care for a career), but there is good news: tomorrow is a day off, which means I get to clean my place, relax, and most importantly, write! Hopefully my muse agrees with that plan._

_There are some things about this chapter that may seem a little confusing, but hopefully things will straighten themselves out in the next couple of chapters. Enjoy!_

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee walked into the middle of a battle. Not a literal battle, of course; there were no bullets flying through the air, no soldiers in camouflage uniforms loading weapons, no tanks rolling by. No, this was something much more innocuous, and unfortunately for McGee, much more common.

"I _told_ you not to touch my stapler!" Special Agent Tony DiNozzo raged, waving his Mighty Mouse stapler as if it were the most precious thing in the world. "You _know_ that it requires a special touch, and now the damned thing is so screwed up it won't even close all the way!"

"For the fourth time, Tony, _I did not touch your stapler_," Mossad Officer Ziva David replied forcefully. She picked up her own stapler, a standard black Swingline that she had probably found with her desk. "I have my own stapler, and it was not made for the 'back to school' section at Target!"

"And you were complaining yesterday that it was out of staples," DiNozzo shot back. "You got here two hours early this morning—how do I know that you didn't have something to staple and just reached for the nearest loaded stapler—mine!"

"I got here two hours early because I had a call in MTAC and had to come in _to do the job for which I am paid_," Ziva replied, her voice cold. "You should know that, because you could not stop complaining about it last night. I did not need to use another stapler, because _mine is full_." She tore the black stapler open to show him the line of unused staples. "Unlike _some people_, I do know how to refill a stapler!"

"Well, if it wasn't you, then who was it?" Tony demanded. McGee settled in and leaned back, enjoying the show. He wondered if there was something behind the argument, or if it was their usual arguing for the sake of arguing. He wondered how two people who had managed to perfect the art of fighting remained in a relationship—or even in a _working_ relationship, for that manner—for so long without killing each other.

"I do not know, Tony!" Ziva exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in her frustration. "I was not assigned to your Mickey Mouse stapler's security detail this week!"

"_Mighty_ Mouse," DiNozzo corrected through clenched teeth. The two continued to glare at each other across their respective desktops, ignoring the glances of curious on-lookers.

"You two need to get a room," McGee muttered under his breath. At least, he thought it was under his breath until they both turned their glares at him. As one, they both began to move slowly toward his position. _Great_, he thought, swallowing nervously, _they're frustrated and taking it out on me. Good thinking, McGee. No wonder they still call you 'Probie' after so many years as a field agent_.

"_What_ was that, McGiggle?" DiNozzo demanded.

"Uh, I just think that, uh—"

"Stand down, DiNozzo. I'm not helping you two hide the body." All three straightened as Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs strode into the bullpen, his timing impeccable and his cup of coffee still steaming. "By the way, DiNozzo, your stapler doesn't work right. Think the damned thing's broken." Ziva smiled triumphantly as she returned to her desk. Tony gave her another brief glare before taking a seat behind his own. "What've you got?" His demand was met with silence from all three field agents. "Well?" he asked harshly.

"Uh, Boss?" DiNozzo said tentatively. "On what? We don't have a case." Gibbs just glared at him as if he should know better before leaving just as abruptly as he arrived, his three agents all watching him walk away with confused expressions on their faces.

"Is there some sort of 'career-building' or 'interpersonal-relations' seminar today that we don't know about?" Tony finally asked. "Does he want us to find a case?"

"I do not know, but I think that is a good idea. I would not want to be us if we are expected to and do not," Ziva replied, turning to her computer. McGee nodded his silent agreement as he similarly checked the list of open cases on the NCIS database. _Stolen digital camera at the Henderson-Hall MCX… not worth enough. Sailor UA from Pearl Harbor… it has potential, but definitely someone else's jurisdiction. Bar fight outside Quantico… Damn. Slow week of Navy crime._ He wondered when that nagging guilt about wanting someone dead to make his working day easier stopped, well, nagging.

He glanced up in time to see a man being escorted from the elevator toward the stairs leading to the loft and frowned. There was something familiar about the lean man in his late thirties or early forties, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. He had no distinguishing marks or features, he was built similarly to countless Marines and sailors his age, wearing well-fitted clothes that weren't over-the-top or obviously tailored. His expression was one of not-quite-concealed concern; he didn't look like he was being brought in for any sort of crime. He frowned as it hit him. "Hey, guys, is that Gregory Aachen?"

Both Tony and Ziva glanced at the man before looking back at McGee. "The novelist?" Ziva finally asked.

"Yes! We have the same publisher. I think we met at some sort of writer's meeting a year or so ago." He frowned, trying to match the image of the man he had met with the one who had just walked by. They could be the same guy, but he wouldn't swear on it.

"Why is a novelist at NCIS?" Ziva asked, vocalizing the question he had been asking himself. DiNozzo just snorted.

"I ask myself that every day I have to work with McGemcity here," he said, bolting a thumb in McGee's direction, who just rolled his eyes.

"It might not be him," McGee said helpfully. "I just talked to him for a few minutes, and that was a year ago."

"Well, there is a way to find out." Both DiNozzo and McGee turned toward Ziva, who had opened a new search on her computer. "Authors have websites, yes? Maybe Aachen's will mention a connection to the Navy."

"Good thinking," Tony commented as he moved to the other side of her desk, taking up position right Ziva, resting his chin on her shoulder. "How did people get any work done before Google?"

"They had to use their imaginations to figure out how to do searches, Tony, although I'm guessing that's a concept you're not familiar with," McGee said dryly. DiNozzo shot him a brief glare before returning his attention to the computer screen. McGee had to admit, if only to himself, that he was impressed that Ziva thought about looking up Aachen. He also moved to where he could see the monitor, but unlike Tony, kept his distance from Ziva's chair.

"I'd say that's the same guy, McGiggle," Tony commented as the home page of Gregory Aachen's fan club came up. Sure enough, the man they had seen crossing the squad room was sitting at a long table with a microphone. The caption read: _Gregory Aachen makes a rare appearance at a local writer's workshop_. He pointed at the words. "Do we know where 'local' is?"

"Let me see…" Ziva's voice trailed off as she quickly skimmed the page. She triumphantly pointed. "The workshop was in Rockville."

"So by 'local', they mean local," Tony said thoughtfully. "Lots of military in the metro DC area."

"Doesn't mean he's one of them, Tony," McGee pointed out. "Ziva, click on that. The 'about Aachen' link." She dutifully clicked and the three read the page silently. Most of the information seemed to be fans' speculation, mostly pulling together information from a few random interviews and public appearances, as he apparently valued his privacy and never did anything to jeopardize that. There was even quite a lot of speculation about whether or not 'Gregory Aachen' existed. There were some who claimed that he was real and that his name really was Gregory Aachen, citing random sightings or childhood memories with the man as proof, but most, including the three agents reading the fan site, believed that it was pseudonym, although only a few hazarded guesses as to where it came from or what it meant. Along those lines, there were some rumors of where his real-life employment was, or even if he had another job, as well as speculation about past military history. One fan claimed to have served in the Marine Corps with the real-life version of 'Gregory Aachen', but refused to identify which unit they served in or the author's real name.

"One of his novels was about an enlisted Army soldier who had an affair with a military physician during the Vietnam conflict," Ziva said suddenly, remembering the book she read a year or two before. "He is married. Maybe his wife is a physician in the Navy."

Tony frowned and turned to face her. "How do you know he's married?"

"He had a ring on his finger, Tony."

"I'm going to pretend not to be worried that you checked."

A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. "I am observant, Tony. It is my job."

"DiNozzo!" They all looked up to see Director Leon Vance standing next to the author in question against the railing. "Where's Gibbs?"

Tony shrugged. "No idea. He did a fly-by and left. I'd check the coffee shop."

"He had coffee, Tony."

"You think he couldn't have drained that already, McState-The-Obvious?"

Vance grunted as he began to descend the stairs, the guest following close behind. "Tell him to come to my office when he reappears. In the meantime, I have an assignment for you." They all grabbed paper and held their pens ready to jot down any information they might need. "Lt. Alyse Aachen, MD. Stationed at Camp Phoenix, Afghanistan."

Their eyes all went to the novelist standing silently by their director's side before returning to Vance. "What about her, Director?" DiNozzo finally asked.

"She went missing this morning—well, this morning in Afghanistan. Nobody's seen her since. You need to find her. Consider it top priority."

Again, they all lapsed into silence, not wanting to ask what they were all wondering with the unknown man standing there. DiNozzo, as the senior field agent, was the one who finally vocalized it. "It's only been a few hours, Director. How do we know she didn't just wander off? She could be back already for all we know."

"She's not." They directed their attention at the previously-silent man standing by Vance. "And she didn't just 'wander off'. I was talking to her via the webcam in her office when she was abducted." He looked down to pull something from his black shoulder bag, completely missing the surprised looks on the NCIS agents' faces. He pulled out a small USB jump drive. "I have the video, if it'll help you believe me."

They all continued to stare as Vance and the man they knew as Gregory Aachen descended the stairs. "McGee, take the video down to Ms. Sciuto's lab. See what you can get from it. DiNozzo, David, work with Mr. Kirkan up here. He'll explain everything."

"Ordering my team around, Leon?" Gibbs returned from places unknown, coffee still in hand. There was no way of knowing if it was the same cup as before, or if Tony's speculation was correct in that he had drained the previous one already.

"Someone had to do it, and I didn't see you around," Vance replied dryly. Gibbs ignored him and turned to the man Vance had identified as Kirkan.

"Called some people in Kabul. Still no leads."

Kirkan nodded. "I understand."

"We'll find her."

An almost sad smile crossed Kirkan's face. "I know, Gunny. Why do you think I called _you_ instead of the NCIS switchboard? The only question, what condition is she going to be in when we do?" He set his jaw as he glanced away, clearly not wanting to consider the possibilities. "Alyse is everything to me. If something happens…" his voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought. A hard look appeared in Gibbs' eyes.

"I'm not going to let anything happen, Marine. You have my word." He stared at Kirkan for a long minute. Without changing his gaze, he began barking out orders. "McGee, the video to Abby. Ziva, DiNozzo, I want to know everything about Dr. Aachen's deployment, everything she did and everyone she talked to, every day of those six months. Kirkan, you're with me."

"Gunny, I can—"

"_Now_ you start standing up for yourself?" The writer flushed at the words, but when Gibbs waved him toward the elevators, he followed obediently. DiNozzo waited until the elevator doors closed before turning to his teammates.

"What was that about?" he asked in wonder. Ziva and McGee just looked at each other before turning toward their desks. Neither bothered attempting to answer him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 3**

* * *

Gibbs took his time paying for the two large coffees, buying him a few extra seconds to figure out what exactly he was going to say. He started with, "Here you go, Marine."

"Thanks," Kirkan replied, accepting the cup. Gibbs was satisfied to see that the former corporal didn't add any cream or sugar before bringing it to his lips. "How much do I owe you?"

"First one's free."

"I'm good for it, Gunny."

"You didn't call me to discuss your finances."

"No." The writer sighed. "I have an accountant for that. And a former gunnery sergeant for when my wife goes missing."

Gibbs didn't say anything for a moment as he stared at his former Marine. "Hadn't heard anything from you in twenty years until you called me at 0100 this morning."

"Yeah." Kirkan put his coffee cup down and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Gibbs wondered when the man last slept. "I didn't know who else to call. After I saw Alyse… After that, I tried calling Camp Phoenix directly, which is, not that surprisingly, pretty difficult to do. I finally got hold of someone who told me that the FOB was under communications lockdown, probably related to the attack, although they didn't tell me that. Couldn't even call up the chain of command—didn't know who that would be. Alyse is there as a professional filler, she wasn't part of the unit prior to being deployed. That actually happens more often than not to doctors." He closed his eyes briefly before opening them to stare at Gibbs as if trying to decide what to say. "So I figured NCIS was the people I needed to talk to, and the fact that my former gunny leads the MCRT made that decision pretty easy." He paused and looked away before looking back. "And I knew you wouldn't say no."

"What made you think that?"

"Because it's about my wife." This time, he didn't look away, meeting Gibbs' gaze unflinchingly.

"Tell me about her." Gibbs no-nonsense tone made it very clear to Kirkan that he wasn't interested in tales of how they met or the fact that she liked a particular white chocolate peanut butter that they sold in commissaries.

"She's an internist," he began. "Six months ago, she left for Camp Phoenix as a PROFIS doc - professional filler - only found out two months before that that she was going, right after she graduated from internal medicine residency at NNMC. Well, that's soon to be WRNMC, but I wouldn't recommend bringing that up to Alyse. You'll get her started on the Army take-over of Bethesda." He shook his head slightly and took another gulp of his coffee. "Prior to finishing her residency, she was a general medical officer—a flight surgeon—for two years. She spent a year on the _Vinson_working in the infirmary, and before that, internship, also at NNMC. She graduated from medical school at the University of Washington on a Navy scholarship."

"Enemies?"

"She's a Navy doc, Gunny. She doesn't have enough free time for enemies."

"What about her patients?"

He shook his head. "She wasn't treating any admirals or generals, if that's what you're asking. No high-valued patients. She didn't know any medical secrets about anybody making big decisions."

"Personal life?"

He shrugged. "Married to a reporter-slash-anonymous novelist for almost two years." He tapped his titanium wedding band against the table absently. "No kids. Parents live in the state of Washington, dad's an accountant and mom's a high school English teacher. She has an older brother, Andrew, a tax lawyer. He was a Marine fighter pilot until he was medically discharged, then went onto law school. He moved back home, specializes in agriculture tax law and works at the same accounting firm as their father."

"Nothing worth kidnapping someone for."

"No." He took a long drink of his coffee as he sorted out his thoughts. "I don't think it has to do with anything, but I don't want you to think I'm holding anything back if you find out, or that she was hiding anything from me. She was engaged in her fourth year of medical school. He was another med student, on an Army scholarship. They were going to both do their residencies in the DC area, him at Walter Reed and her at Bethesda, but he ended up assigned to Madigan—the Army hospital at Ft. Lewis, in Washington state. She told me that they were going to find a way to work around the fact that they were stationed on opposite coasts until she found out that he requested Madigan. Got cold feet or something. She called it off, hadn't talked to him since they graduated from medical school."

"Name?"

Kirkan shook his head. "No idea. I never asked. It doesn't have anything to do with anything. I know he's a neurologist in the Army and graduated from medical school at the University of Washington almost six years ago, and that he's a fucking idiot for letting her go, but that's all I know."

Gibbs nodded. "We'll look into it," he said as he made a note in his pocket notebook. "Don't think it's relevant, though."

"Yeah, I don't think so either." He sighed and rubbed his face again. "What are you thinking, Gunny? Is this some sort of terrorism thing?"

"No way to tell at this point." Gibbs took another long drink of his coffee. "We look into every possibility."

Kirkan stared at him for a long minute. "I suppose that means your next question will be about my enemies."

"I don't remember you being interesting enough to have enemies."

The writer smiled thinly. "That's what I always liked about you, Gunny. Your sense of humor." He sighed. "You also don't remember me being a writer. Or, more to the point, a reporter." He was rather impressed with how calmly he had taken a sip of his coffee. "You want a list of people I've pissed off with my articles? You can put Allie on that list. That's how we met, actually. I wrote an article, she didn't like it and emailed me to complain, and practically the next thing I know, I'm trying to figure out how to propose to a woman who is almost a decade younger than me, has almost a decade more formal education, and at that time, had a net worth about three times that of my own."

"Unless you think your wife kidnapped herself, that doesn't help much."

"Yeah." He took another drink of coffee. "I would write you a list, but honestly, I don't know who I've upset. I don't keep track of those things. I can get you a list of my articles, but I've been a regular contributor to _S&S_ for seven years. That's a lot of articles." He shook his head slightly. "And none of them were exactly the type of ground-breaking, Pulitzer-worthy material that creates life-long enemies. You won't see them making a _Frost/Nixon_-esque movie about anything I've uncovered any time soon."

"And the novels?"

"Fans are insane, but I doubt many have the resources to figure out who I am and who my wife is and how to get to Afghanistan to abduct her." He ran his hands through his hair, now much longer than it had been in his years in the Corps and quite a lot grayer. Alyse liked to tease him about his hair—both the length and the gray—and he protested that it was still far from anything ninety percent of the population would consider to be long, and that she should just be grateful that he still had a full head of hair, unlike his father, who had been just about completely bald by thirty. "What is going on, Gunny?" he finally asked, shaking his head slightly to distract from the random tangents his thoughts were taking. "What the _hell_ is going on? Less than ten hours ago, my biggest concern was finishing an article for a 0500 deadline, and now my wife is missing and I have no fucking clue why. Is it a Navy thing, a doctor thing, something I did? Is she involved in something in Afghanistan that I don't know about? It's all one big Charlie Foxtrot, that's for sure."

Gibbs smiled grimly. "My team is the best, Marine. We'll get to the bottom of this." He took a sip of his coffee. "You just better hope this investigation doesn't require me to talk to Lyndi Crenshaw again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 4**

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing; I definitely appreciate the comments. Since I'm writing this one so slowly (I can usually crank out a chapter in an hour or two; lately, it's been taking me two or three days to get one written. RL can suck sometimes, especially when staying awake all night, every third night, to make sure patients don't crash), it's a little harder for me to figure out if things flow well and still make sense. So if there's anything you're not following, don't hesitate to ask. I'll try to clear things up._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo's eyes went from one of the other occupants of the bullpen to the other. "Seriously, you two," he said in a mock-scolding voice. "How can you not be curious about who the hell this guy is?" Both glanced up at him briefly before returning their attention to their own work.

"We know who he is, Tony," McGee said calmly, reading something on his computer screen. "Peter Kirkan."

"Otherwise known as Gregory Aachen," Ziva chimed in, her phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, on hold with someone either half a world away or just down the street. With Ziva and her contacts, there was no way to know which it could be. Not even the language she spoke gave any answers away there.

"Husband to Lt. Alyse Aachen in the Navy Medical Corps," McGee continued.

"Who has not been seen since approximately 0800 this morning at Camp Phoenix," Ziva concluded. "Thank you," she said into the phone before hanging up. She looked over at DiNozzo and smirked. "That is who we should be focused on."

"I know how to—"

"McGee!" All three agents snapped their heads up at Gibbs' sharp tone, seeing their boss striding into the bullpen, Peter Kirkan still in tow. "Why aren't you in Abby's lab?"

"Uh, dropped the video off, Boss," the junior agent said quickly. "Abby wanted to work on it alone. We, uh, watched through it once first, didn't really see anything. Dr. Aachen was alone in the office, which means—"

"No witnesses," Gibbs interrupted impatiently. "Do you have _anything_, McGee?"

"The abductor was wearing a hood. Abby says she might have access to a computer program at the FBI that could help determine physical parameters." At Gibbs' blank look, he continued, "Things like height, weight, uh, depending on the angle of the camera and the quality of the video, maybe even facial features—"

"Keep me posted." Gibbs didn't give him a chance to say anything further before turning to DiNozzo and Ziva. "Tell me you two have something for me."

"I spoke with the commanding officer of Dr. Aachen's clinic," Ziva informed him. "He told me that Dr. Aachen was on-call last night and responded to an attack on a convoy at 0340. She followed the patients into the hospital and logged onto the hospital's computer system at 0513. She logged off at 0642 and logged onto the system from the clinic office at 0657. She completed twelve patient records before logging off again at 0820 and immediately logged onto Skype to call Mr. Kirkan." She nodded toward the writer, who nodded in return. "The conversation lasted less than ten minutes before it was terminated from Dr. Aachen's end."

"I'm impressed," McGee blurted out before he could stop himself. "I didn't know you knew how to do computer searches."

"She's been working around you for almost six years, Probie. Had to pick up something in that time," DiNozzo said dryly. He caught the amused look on Ziva's face; McGee had still been in Abby's lab when she had been talking to Dr. Aachen's commanding officer and missed the fact that the commander had done all the searching from the clinic's computer and read it back to her over the phone. What McGee didn't know about his co-workers' searching techniques couldn't hurt him.

He turned to Gibbs as he rose from his chair and turned on the plasma screen to display Dr. Aachen's official Department of the Navy photo and the first page of her personnel file. "Lt. Alyse Aachen, MD," he began. "Direct commission into the Medical Corps ten years ago, spent four years as an ensign on inactive ready reserve status—education delay. Graduated from the University of Washington School of Medicine almost six years ago, was recommissioned as a lieutenant and stationed at NNMC in Bethesda. Spent a year there, then—"

"Flight surgeon aboard the _Vinson_, then back to Bethesda to finish residency," Gibbs interrupted impatiently. "Know that already, DiNozzo. Fast forward to the deployment."

"Right. Arrived at Camp Phoenix about six months ago in a professional filler position. She took over for a Lt. Commander Jason Loyd, joining Lt. Commander Amy Rodeback and Lt. Spencer Walters as the third Navy internist at the camp. They had a rotation schedule—one week in the hospital, two weeks in the clinic. Then, four months ago, an Army internist, Lt. Colonel Samuel Davis, ended his tour and went back home, which meant that they needed a new physician at the camp's detainment center."

"Detainees?" Kirkan asked with a frown. They all turned their attention to the writer to see him shaking his head slowly. "She never said anything about there being detainees at Camp Phoenix."

"Ever since Gitmo closed, detainee camps outside the continental United States have been kept strictly need-to-know," DiNozzo explained. "And I'm guessing there aren't very many reporters on that particular need-to-know list." He turned back to Gibbs. "Dr. Aachen lobbied pretty hard for the position, and Naval Intelligence looked just as hard to find a reason to disqualify her. Quite a few security checks into her background, most of which are classified, but apparently came up clean, 'cause she got the job. According to her CO, she spent her mornings at the detainee center and afternoons in the clinic and continued to split call with the other internists, which is why she responded to the attack on the convoy."

"Find anything on the detainees?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo snorted.

"Couldn't even find anyone other than Aachen's CO to admit that there _is_ a detainee center," he replied. His sarcastic grin fell abruptly at Gibbs' glare. "Still working on it, Boss. Put in a request for information to everyone from the most junior MP at the camp to the SecNav, still waiting for NI and JAG approval." He frowned slightly and idly played with the remote to the plasma. "There are two basic theories when it comes to holding detainees at medical facilities in theater: you either get them to the first hospital after picking them up, or you make sure they're far away from their buddies and anyone with the ability to get them out." He glanced quickly over at Ziva before turning his attention back to Gibbs. "If they keep them close to home, the primary Taliban cell in the Kabul area is run by Mullah Ahmad Khan. If they spread them out through CENTCOM, there are a few cells with the resources to pull an abduction like this off."

"Find out," Gibbs demanded.

"I don't know if you heard me, Boss, but nobody's talking."

"Then find someone who is." He stared pointedly at Ziva, who just stared back. DiNozzo didn't have to wonder what that was about; since her liaison duties with Mossad had changed a year and a half before, Gibbs hadn't been timid about letting her—and the rest of the office—know what he thought about the fact that calls in MTAC took priority over investigating crime scenes. Tony knew that she wasn't any happier about that fact than their boss was, but she covered it up by arguing with him about it just as vehemently as he argued with her. Sometimes it was nice not being the focus of Ziva's frustrations. Of course, sometimes being the focus of Ziva's frustrations meant--

"I will talk to my contacts," she said simply, cutting off DiNozzo's line of thought. He frowned slightly at the fact that she didn't add any of the usual sarcastic snippets she usually did.

"All I ask," Gibbs replied.

"So you _do_ think this is a terrorism thing?" All the agents turned to Kirkan, who still looked slightly overwhelmed at the whole scenario.

"We're looking into everything," Gibbs replied, the same answer he gave him before. He turned back to DiNozzo. "Get me the contact information for Colonel Davis."

"Boss?"

"Doctors handle information differently than other military officers, DiNozzo," he said as he headed toward the stairs. He waved for Kirkan to follow before returning his attention to his senior field agent. "You want to know what kind of detainees they're holding there, you ask the doctors treating them." DiNozzo was about to point out that doctors still followed doctor-patient confidentiality when the patients were detainees, but Gibbs had disappeared inside Vance's office before he had the chance. He shrugged and returned to his chair. Sometimes it was easier to do what Gibbs asked than to argue with him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 5**

_A/N: Last night on call, I discovered why people specialize in critical care (not that I'm going to do so, but I can understand it now). I didn't save a life (not really), and my patient will probably never realize just how much work went into what we did, but I discovered just how rewarding it can be to know that you sacrificed sleep and sanity, and in the end, it paid off. To him, it was just a blimp on the screen of the events that had been shaping his life for the past four days, since he ended up on the wrong end of an IED in Afghanistan, but to me, it's knowing that I did something to help him get better._

_I think it's about time I stop complaining about my RL. When I think about it, it's pretty darn cool._

* * *

McGee knew Abby wanted to work alone, but he also knew that she would only protest his presence for a few seconds before resigning herself to it. To make those few seconds go a little bit more smoothly, he took a quick detour to the base convenience store for a fresh Caf-Pow first.

"Aww, McGee, you didn't have to do that," she crooned as she registered the presence of the highly caffeinated drink. Despite her words, she wasted no time in grabbing it and sticking the straw in her mouth. "You wanna see how this program works?"

"You have to ask?" He pulled a labstool up to her computer bench and took a seat. She turned her head toward him quickly and grinned, her black pigtails flying. He hadn't realized until that moment just how long her hair had gotten; between her and Ziva, there was long black hair everywhere. He wondered if long hair had gone back in style, but quickly dismissed the thought. It wasn't that it wasn't necessarily true, it was just that neither woman was really into high fashion, but for entirely different reasons.

She took another long drink from the Caf-Pow before she began speaking. "So this is a brand-spanking-new program that the FBI boys came up with, and I mean 'boys' in a strictly gender-neutral kinda way. I mean, there could have been women on the programming team, too. There probably were, actually. Government agencies have this big thing about making sure that they're being equal-opportunity when it comes to their hiring. That's why we have those quarterly equal-opportunity briefings, which are more than just a little ridiculous, because—"

"I go to them, too, Abby. I know how ridiculous they are."

"Right. Sorry, McGee. I'm on my third Caf-Pow already this morning. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh, yeah. Last night was that concert, wasn't it? _Legally Dead_?"

"_Lethally Dead_," she corrected. "Yeah, I know. It's a little redundant. They were pretty good, but they were having some sound issues, so the set started pretty late, and after they were done, Jack and I decided to go to this one diner and get some coffee and pie, and—"

"Jack?" McGee interrupted with a frown. Abby turned from her computer screen and also frowned.

"Yeah. My cousin Jack, from Louisiana? It was her band. Oh! You met her, that one time."

"Oh," he said, remembering. "The one with the…" His voice trailed off as he gestured to his jaw.

"She got laser hair removal. The full beard is gone." She shrugged. "It's too bad circuses don't have freak shows anymore. She could have made a lot of money as a bearded woman."

"Doesn't she make a lot of money by having a band?"

"Please, McGee. Have _you_ ever heard of _Lethally Dead_?" The keys clicked softly as her fingers flew over them. "So like I was saying, this is a brand-new program, which means there may some problems if this goes to court." He shuddered slightly at the memory of another time her science came into question at court and the hitman the defendant hired to take her out just in case.

"I think at this point, we're more concerned with finding the lieutenant than court," he replied to distract himself from the thought. Abby made a face at him.

"I know _that_, McGee," she protested indignantly. "I was just trying to make conversation."

"When have you ever had a hard time making conversation?"

"When I was starting kindergarten, when I was five," she replied promptly. Her fingers were still flying over the keyboard, the program running. He was always impressed at her ability to multitask; she could tell a nonsensical story while running some of the most complicated forensics tests he knew of. "I spent most of my time before that with my parents, of course, and we didn't talk at home."

"Because they're deaf."

"Right. So this program is different from other enhancement programs in that it actually uses video, not stills. It was originally written to be used to identify people wearing ski masks and uses their movements to extrapolate the features." She selected the hooded figure in the shadows of the video and clicked a few things, blowing it up and enhancing the pixels. "I'm not sure how it'll do on this one, because this guy is wearing a hood, not a mask. A mask is a lot tighter on the face and you can actually see some movement with changing facial expressions, but the hood covers up a lot more." They watched silently as the video ran, the screen remaining focused on the head of the hooded figure as it approached Dr. Aachen and threw a similar hood over her head before leaning forward and ending the connection. "I've watched this like, a dozen times, and that still creeps me out," Abby admitted. "Okay, so it uses the light and the changing shadows as the figure moves to extrapolate what is under the hood," she continued with the explanation. "The light in the video is pretty good, since she was in an office. The bad guy starts in this corner, which is a little shadowed by that filing-cabinet thing—"

"It just looks like a stack of black plastic boxes," McGee interrupted.

"Is that really relevant?" she shot back in return. "Okay, it's not getting a fix on anything in this first few seconds—"

"Wait," McGee said, a frown on his face as he leaned forward in the labstool. "Pause it. Go back to the beginning of the video. Has this guy been there during the whole conversation, or did he come in sometime while they were talking?"

"Good question," Abby agreed as she went back to the beginning of the video, zooming in on the shadowy corner where the man had been lurking. "We'll have to enhance it, give it a little bit more light," she said, more to herself than to McGee as she entered the commands into the keyboard. "There he is. He's been there throughout the whole conversation."

"That doesn't make any sense," the field agent said with a frown. "She had been in the office for over an hour, working on patient charts. Wouldn't she have noticed him coming in?"

"Unless he was there already," Abby pointed out.

"So he was just standing there, waiting for over an hour and a half to abduct her?" he asked, still frowning. "Why wait for her to call her husband? If he had snatched her right away, they could have gotten her out without anyone noticing. Unless…"

"Unless he wanted to be noticed," Abby finished. "So what does that mean? Are we going to be getting a sketchy follow-up video from a terrorist cell, with shaky camera work and shadows and vague threats about what's going to happen to our lieutenant if we don't release the following five bad guys?"

"How did he know that she was going to be calling anybody?" McGee asked. "Was he planning on waiting there for hours or as long as it took for her to use Skype, so this abduction would be on tape?"

Abby shrugged. "Maybe she calls at the same time every day."

He sighed as he pushed the stool away from the bench and stood. "It sounds like I have some questions for Mr. Kirkan," he said reluctantly. He didn't have anything against the author—he had only met him once, after all, and they had barely spoken more than simple pleasantries—but the last thing he wanted at the moment was to get into a conversation that could lead to a discussion of his writing, especially with someone who was currently much, much more successful at that than he was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 6**

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to everyone who said they wanted more Tiva. I aim to please (kinda)._

* * *

The bullpen was silent, with McGee down in the lab with Abby and Gibbs up in Vance's office with Kirkan, leaving DiNozzo and Ziva alone and working on their respective assignments. After Gibbs' instructions to get in touch with someone who might know something quickly, Ziva knew she should have been on the phone to Raanan Thal, the Mossad control officer for three or four deep undercover operatives in various Taliban cells, but she remembered her own time as a control officer; phone calls, especially out of the blue, were not a pleasant thing to receive. She sent an urgent email with instructions to call back instead, hoping that the young officer was in a place where she could receive email and in a position where she could call back. If she wasn't, trying to reach her by phone would likely fail anyway. Or lead to her death.

That task completed and that morbid thought out of her head, she busied herself with navigating the various news sites on the internet for anything that might be relevant while sneaking glances to her partner, similarly engaged in searching for something on-line, but with a practiced blank look on his face that she was probably the only person in the world who could correctly interpret. "I am sorry about last night," she finally said.

"Don't worry about it," he replied shortly, not looking over at her. She frowned and felt her frustrations from the evening before come back with a vengeance.

"I do not think I did anything wrong," she snapped. "I am merely attempting to extend the tree branch."

"Olive branch."

"Yes, that."

He finally turned away from the computer screen to look at her. He figured the apology hadn't been a real one; Ziva, in true Gibbs fashion, didn't believe in apologies. "Not now," he said, his voice still tight. Her eyes narrowed before she slammed her pen to the desk, pushing her chair back to stand. She made her way over to his desk and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up.

"Yes, now," she snapped back. His eyes widened in surprise at the move; it had been almost two years since their relationship changed from partners-who-flirt-a-lot to partners-who-sleep-together-and-more, and in that time, he could probably count on one hand the number of times that they had brought their relationship into the office; Gibbs had made it very clear that he expected nothing less than professionalism. Despite their boss' instructions, though, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and directed toward the vending machines.

"Ziva, this isn't—"

"Quiet," she snapped, her voice a few steps beyond angry. "You have been acting like a petulant child for the past week, and I have been tolerant of it, but my tolerance only goes so far." He snorted at that, making her strengthen her glare. "Your argument last night just—"

"Okay, stop," he said, his tone just as angry. "Before you make this all _my_ fault, let me remind you that _you_ were the one who walked out last night."

"I went to my apartment, because you were complaining that I was turning the pages of my book too loudly!" she shot back. "And before that, you _ordered_ me to sit down because you were worried about me pacing a hole in your carpet!"

"You done?" he asked sarcastically. She snorted.

"I am just getting started!"

"Well, I'm saying that you're done," he shot back, making her glare strengthen to the 'danger, Will Robinson' levels. He toned it down slightly, not really wanting to get her to the point where she would not only be threatening bodily harm, but also carrying out on those threats. "Did you ever stop to think of how _you_ act in the week before your super-secret Mossad MTAC calls?" He could tell by the surprised blink that that was a 'no'. "You go back to who you were almost six years ago when you first arrived here," he informed her. "Right back to well-trained super ninja who showed up here to try to keep us from stopping a cold-hearted murderer." She blinked again, her expression going completely blank, and he knew that he had crossed the line with that last comment. Five and a half years after her brother's death and a year and a half after her father arranged his own assassination, comments about her family were still not well-received. Since there was no way to take the words back, he plowed forward. "You're sneaky, you're secretive, aloof, distrustful, guarded, devious—"

"You are just listing synonyms!" Ziva exclaimed.

"Fine!" he replied through clenched teeth. "Then let me just say this: you're impossible to live with!"

"Living with you is no walk through the yard, either!"

"_Park_," he replied. "Walk in the _park_."

"Whatever!" She threw her hands in the air, clearly not amused by the usual back-and-forth. "Did you stop and consider that maybe those Mossad calls are not easy for me, and that is why I am more easily distracted?"

He snorted. "Distracted? You're so far from distracted that—." He stopped talking at her hand clamped over his mouth.

"Do you even know what the call in MTAC was this morning?" He frowned, both at the question and the lower, more serious voice it was asked in.

"I assumed it was just one of those standard security updates," he admitted when Ziva finally withdrew her hand. When her responsibilities as the Mossad liaison officer to NCIS first changed with the Mossad regime change after her father's death, he had been curious about everything she was doing, asking about the calls and the reports and the security conferences to the point that she was getting annoyed with the constant questions. After the first four or five months, they both got bored with that, falling into a predictable routine of not taking their work home with them, keeping their off-duty conversations as off-duty as possible. He knew when the calls were scheduled for the reasons he just told her: she became very difficult to live with a few days to a week before them. Phone calls in Hebrew, both at the office and at home—either of their homes—were not an unusual occurrence, and rarely piqued his curiosity anymore. At least once a month, he could expect to be told to be on his best behavior while she hosted some sort of high-ranking Mossad officer or mid-level Israeli dignitary for dinner at her apartment. The first time she had disappeared without any warning, eight months after her father's death, he had been beside himself with worry, calling in favors to every law enforcement and intelligence officer he had a favor to call into, trying to track her down. She reappeared after a few days, completely unharmed and unaware of the lengths he had taken to find her. She found out soon enough when the emails and phone calls from Tony's contacts—who had actually been _her_ contacts originally—started pouring in. After that, they had an agreement: she would tell him that she was going, but not where she was going or when she was coming back. He wasn't allowed to tell anyone that she was gone, no matter how long it had been; to keep him from worrying that she was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, she had a standing arrangement with a control officer within Mossad that if anything happened to her, NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo had to know.

"It was not," she said softly, getting back to his question.

"Another mission?" he asked, his voice just as low, as if afraid that speaking it any louder would jinx things. She shook her head.

"It was my semi-annual review for the liaison position," she said, looking everywhere but at him. He frowned and placed his hand under her chin, directing her eyes to his.

"And?" he prompted. "Are you still employed?"

"Director Ruthven approved another six months," she replied, nodding slightly. "But he was not happy with that." He snorted; Director Ruthven hadn't been happy about her position since he became the director of Mossad. Ziva sighed. "I am not sure how things will turn out in another six months," she admitted. "How are things—"

"You'll be the first to know if anything changes," he interrupted. He sighed and leaned his head back against the vending machine. When it became obvious that Ruthven wasn't going to be going for this liaison position forever, he began lobbying Director Vance for his own team, preferably at the Bahrain office when Special Agent Stan Burley finished his assignment there; depending on how desperate the situation became, though, he'd take anything. Their back-up plan, which neither was thrilled with, was for her to resign from Mossad and find a position with one of the intelligence agencies in the DC area, assuming that any would hire her, considering her background. They figured their best bet would be the CIA; those guys would take anyone. "Vance is only beginning to look for Burley's replacement. He still has another year."

She took a deep breath and nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. She pulled it from her pocket and frowned at the display. "Raanan," she explained. DiNozzo nodded.

"You need to answer that."

"Yes." She accepted the call. "_Shalom_," she greeted, switching to Hebrew. She gave Tony another meaningful look before giving the Mossad officer her full attention, heading back toward their desks. "Are you free to talk?" she asked, still in Hebrew.

"_Yes_," the younger Mossad officer replied from somewhere half a world away. Ziva glanced over at Tony and waved him over to her desk. Although he couldn't read or write Hebrew, he was getting pretty good at listening and speaking it, and figured it couldn't hurt to have two sets of ears on this conversation.

"I am putting you on speaker," she informed Thal. "My partner at NCIS is here as well."

"_And he speaks Hebrew?"_ Raanan Thal had an almost musical voice, a rich mezzo-soprano that seemed even more exotic as it spoke the foreign language; if the situation hadn't been so serious, Tony would have been joking to Ziva about how hot the control officer sounded, just to make her smile and roll her eyes. Instead, he stayed quiet and let Ziva handle the speaking.

"A naval officer has been abducted outside Kabul," Ziva said, not bothering to acknowledge the question. "She was a physician at a detainee center at Camp Phoenix."

"_And you would like to know who is there_." Thal certainly hadn't been promoted for her musical voice alone; she knew her job. "_Unfortunately, that makes two of us. I knew the Americans had detainees at Camp Phoenix, but I do not know who they are keeping there. Based on the traffic coming to and from the base, it is a short-term facility, likely only for medical care; they are treated and then sent to a more permanent facility elsewhere. For that reason, they may have tenants originating from a large geographic area._"

Ziva frowned, and glanced over at DiNozzo to see a similar expression on his face. A short-term facility for the sole purpose of health care didn't fit the profile of a location that terrorists would want to attack in order to rescue a friend. It would make more sense to attack the transport convoy taking said terrorists from the hospital to their permanent or semi-permanent location.

Tony was apparently thinking the same thing: he held up a piece of paper on which he had written, _Attack on convoy last night?_ Ziva nodded. "There was an attack on a convoy just outside the gates to the camp early this morning. Are they related?"

There was a pause on the other end. "_I do not know,_" Thal finally admitted. "_I have not heard anything about either the attack or the abduction_."

Ziva swore lightly under her breath. This conversation was turning out to be completely useless. "How many operatives do you have in the area?"

Again, a long pause. "_Currently, two_," Thal informed them. "_It was three, but one was sloppy. He was picked up by the Americans a few weeks ago_." Another long pause. "_That is why I have been trying to gather information on the American detainee centers_."

This time, the swearing was louder and longer. "And you did not think to contact me?" Ziva snapped. "Did you think that Mossad had a liaison officer to NCIS because I like to run on the Capital Crescent Trail?" DiNozzo bit back a snort of laughter at the glare on Ziva's face. How ironic, that she would be having this discussion with a control officer on the very day she had to defend her job to her director. "What is his name? Both his real name and the one he had been using."

"_Ezra Hardoon_," Officer Thal said. "_That is his name, but he was likely picked up under the name Kazem Shirazi_." Ziva jotted down the names, unconsciously writing his true name in Hebrew and the pseudonym in Arabic. He had a Mizrahi name and was using a Shi'ite cover; he had probably been picked up as an Iraqi trainer in a Taliban camp. She glanced over at Tony to see an unknowing expression on his face; he still had a lot to learn about Middle Eastern nuisances.

"Identifying marks?" Ziva asked Thal.

"_He was in a bombing as a child,_" the control officer said. "_He has extensive scars on his right arm as well as his right hip, but that may not be all that distinguishing in that population_." Ziva noticed the slight crack in Thal's voice as she mentioned the scars on Hardoon's hip, and guessed that she gathered that intel from means other than the Mossad officer's official file. She hoped that wouldn't be an issue.

"What do you have to offer?" Tony frowned at the phrasing, but Raanan Thal seemed to know what she was asking.

"_I will keep the fact that the Americans have captured an allied agent quiet,_" the control officer said dryly.

"This is not a joke, Officer Thal," Ziva snapped. "As an intelligence operative, Officer Hardoon could not have expected any different treatment." As she knew from personal experience, spies weren't covered by the Geneva Convention; if captured, there was no one to say how humanitarian the treatment had to be. There was a reason why she was determined to never be captured alive. "You are asking the American government to reveal the location of an overseas detainee center in order to release a Mossad officer operating in their territory without their knowledge. You better have something to make it worth their while."

"_Afghanistan is hardly American territory_."

"I assure you, they do not agree on that point. The fact that he was captured proves that."

There was a long stretch of silence on the other end before Thal spoke again. "_There is a camp in Pakistan that has remained unknown. We were planning on taking care of it ourselves, but we will share the intelligence_."

"What else do you have?"

Another stretch of silence. "_The possible location of two Marine pilots who were shot down_," Thal said reluctantly. "_It is believed that they are being held in the same place as several IDF soldiers captured earlier this year. That intel has not been verified and may be a trap. We were going to—_"

"Thank you," Ziva interrupted. She didn't need to hear another one of Thal's excuses. She wondered when she had started considering herself more an NCIS agent than a Mossad operative; she had once been just as secretive with her intelligence as Thal was being, but now it just annoyed her. "I need you to listen for information on the Navy physician and the Camp Phoenix detainees. Call back in six hours, after I have had the opportunity to speak with people on my end." She hung up the phone before the younger woman could say anything further and looked over at Tony.

"Looks like you're going to be doing some liaising today," he said, his tone light but the expression on his face serious. "At least you'll have something for your next report. Maybe we'll buy ourselves another six months."


	7. Chapter 7

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 7**

_A/N: It's been suggested to me that giving a summary of what has happened will help keep things straight to you, my dear readers, since I can't keep with my usual chapter a day pattern. So, to sum up, Lt. Alyse Aachen, MD, an internist at a detainee facility in Camp Phoenix, Afghanistan, was abducted while speaking to her husband, Peter Kirkan, who is a reporter for _Stars and Stripes_(the US Armed Forces newspaper), as well as a fairly-recently-made-famous novelist (under the pseudonym Gregory Aachen). He also happens to be one of Gibbs' former Marines from his time in the Corps, and turned to his former gunny for help. Abby and McGee are currently analyzing the video of the abduction for clues, Gibbs and Kirkan are speaking to Director Vance, and Tony and Ziva just spoke to Mossad control officer Raanan Thal, who may have information that can help them find Dr. Aachen, in return for NCIS' help in releasing one of her operatives, captured by the United States military a few weeks before. _

_And now, back to the story._

* * *

Cynthia was on the phone when Gibbs and Kirkan left Vance's office, probably trying to fit someone into the director's schedule, based on the frown on her face and the serious glare she was giving the computer screen. Not wanting to disturb her—nor caring about her work—Gibbs left the outer office without a word, headed for the stairs to rejoin his team at the bullpen.

"Where's McGee?" he asked DiNozzo. Judging from the frustration in her voice and the seriousness of her tone as she spoke on the phone, Ziva was trying to get an appointment with someone important. Although he didn't like Ruthven's decision to change the parameters of Ziva's work, he had to admit that having someone so well connected in the anti-terrorism circles had its perks.

"Lab," the senior field agent replied, his attention still on the computer screen. He glanced up at his boss to see Gibbs still staring at him. "Went back down to work on the video some more with Abby."

"Boss!" All three men turned their attention to the excited voice coming from the elevator.

"You have something this time, McGee?" Gibbs asked dryly. The junior field agent flushed and nodded.

"Actually, some questions," he admitted. "For Mr. Kirkan." He nodded toward the author. "Uh, Abby and I went through the video again, and we noticed that the man who abducted your wife—uh, Dr. Aachen—seemed to have been waiting in her office, so we were wondering—"

"McGee!"

"Right. Does she call at the same time every day?" His words came out in a rush, as if trying to get to the point sooner.

Kirkan blinked at the question, then shook his head. "Yes, she calls at the same time every day, but no, it's not at the time she called last night." He frowned. "She usually calls when she's done with sick call, which I guess would be before she went over to the detainee center, although I didn't realize that that's where she was going. It's usually about an hour later than she actually called me. She doesn't always call from her office, though."

"What do you mean?"

"She _usually_ calls from the office," he explained. "But sometimes, if it was a slow day in sick call, she'll call from her quarters—well, the hut that she shares with five other O-3's that serves as her quarters. Sometimes she calls from an office in the hospital itself." He frowned again. "There would be no way of knowing that she was going to be in that office at that time, unless—"

"Unless whoever was behind the abduction was also behind the attack on the convoy," Gibbs finished. He turned to Ziva, saw her still on the phone, and turned to DiNozzo.

"No idea, Boss," the senior field agent said quickly. "We talked to one of Ziva's contacts in Afghanistan; she hadn't heard anything about the attack. She doesn't know who's being held at Camp Phoenix, either, but is under the impression that it's a short-term facility, only used for medical care before the detainees are taken to their definitive location." He paused and glanced over at Ziva, who looked over at him and nodded slightly. "The contact is a control officer. She had an operative picked up by a US sting a couple weeks ago, has been trying to track him down since. If he's been moving around the system since then, there's a chance he might have heard something about Dr. Aachen or plans to take a doctor. Officer Thal, the control officer, is also willing to trade some other intel and whatever her operative knows if we can convince whoever is holding him to let him go quietly."

"Sounds like it's worth looking into," Gibbs replied, glancing over at Ziva again, who had just finished her conversation.

"Ten minutes with the director, right now," she said, rising from her chair. DiNozzo also got up until Gibbs' stare prompted him to return to his seat.

"Don't think it takes two of you to brief the director," he snapped. "You find Colonel Davis yet?"

"William Beaumont Army Medical Center in El Paso, Texas," DiNozzo replied promptly. "He's the internal medicine residency director, was in Afghanistan for a three month deployment. Got his number but haven't called him yet." He held out a slip of paper, which Gibbs snatched from his fingers.

"I'll handle this," he said. "Check in with the Bahrain office and all the field offices in CENTCOM, see if they've heard any chatter about terrorist cells or detainees wanting physicians. McGee, keep me posted on anything Abby gets from that video. Kirkan, go through all your correspondence with your wife since she's been deployed, find me anything that I can use."

"And what are you doing, Boss?" DiNozzo asked before he could stop himself. Gibbs turned his glare in his direction.

"I'm going to see how helpful Colonel Davis is willing to be," he snapped, snatching his phone from the cradle as he took a seat at his desk.

---

"_I'm sorry, Agent Gibbs, but I can't—_"

"Dr. Aachen is missing, Colonel," Gibbs interrupted. "We have her abduction on tape."

"_You've said that already_," Lt. Colonel Samuel Davis, MD, replied patiently. "_But even if I could tell you about the detainees, which I can't—it's a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, not to mention doctor-patient confidentiality and national security—it won't do you any good. The detainees stayed long enough for medical treatment and that's it. I seriously doubt anyone I treated is still there._"

"Who knew Dr. Aachen was taking over for you in the detainee center?"

"_All of the internists in the clinic, all of the surgeons who operated on detainees, the MPs, any JAGs involved, and, of course, the patients, but they didn't know who we are. According to the Geneva Conventions, we are required to identify ourselves as medical personnel, but are not required to give any personal information—them knowing our names, ranks, and serial numbers isn't necessary for us to treat them._"

"Did Lt. Aachen ever share that information?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone as Dr. Davis considered this. "_Not that I observed,_" he finally said. "_Our terms in the center overlapped by a couple of weeks, enough time for me to show her the ropes and make sure she knew what she was doing. She introduced herself as a physician of the United States Navy. I never heard her give her name. That's not to say she didn't start doing it after I left, but I don't see why. It's not as if there was any concern about the detainees getting their physicians confused or knowing who to sue for malpractice._" He paused again. "_Even if she did, though, I don't see what difference it would have made. Them knowing her name wouldn't have given them enough power over her to abduct her._"

Gibbs knew that the physician had a point and let that particular question drop. "Any problems with the detainees?"

"_Surprisingly enough, no,_" Davis admitted. "_They were either too sick to make any threats or too grateful for the free medical care. Can't guarantee it wasn't the same under Lt. Aachen—some of the hard-core Muslims, especially in the Taliban, have issues with female physicians in general—but it actually wasn't a bad assignment. To be honest, we had bigger problems with the MPs and JAGs._"

"How so?"

Another long pause. "_I guess you can say that the lawyers liked following the laws a little bit too much,_" the lieutenant colonel said. Gibbs had to grin at the phrasing. "_Over here, we're still feeling the effects of Abu Ghraib and Gitmo, and the JAGs like to make sure that there's zero impression of improper treatment. We got scolded quite often for not allowing the prisoners to smoke or have their required exercise time every day. We tried explaining that we're a hospital and nobody is allowed to smoke, and that not all detainees are well enough for recreation time, but, well, there's a reason why lawyers and MPs didn't go to medical school._" There was another pause as the words seemed to sink in to Davis, and he was quick to add, "_Not that they're stupid, it's just... well, there are things you pick up by being incredibly over-educated. Or in the case of the lawyers, there are things you lose by going to law school. Like common sense._" He chuckled slightly at his own joke. "_I don't think any of the JAGs or MPs would ever get frustrated enough with the medical system to kidnap a doc from her office, though_."

_No, probably not_, Gibbs thought to himself. To Lt. Colonel Davis, he asked, "What can you tell me about Lt. Aachen?"

The question was met with silence, probably as Davis processed the change in subject. "_She's a good kid,_" he finally said. "_I didn't spend too much time with her—our stays only overlapped by two months, we're a couple of ranks apart, she was staying in the Navy and Marine section and I was with the other Army officers, we both had our own groups of friends, those sorts of things. At work, there was the standard good-natured inter-service ribbing, but she took it well and gave as good as she got. She wasn't too talkative about her private life. I knew she was married—she wore a wedding band—but I didn't know her husband was Gregory Aachen until the day before I headed out. My wife had sent me his latest novel about two months before, one of the other Navy docs saw it as I was packing up my office and started teasing Alyse about it. She laughed it up with them, said something about being glad people were buying it because she wanted to use the royalty checks to go on a long cruise with her husband when she got back from deployment. I didn't understand the comment until Commander Rodeback explained that Gregory Aachen was actually Alyse's husband, said it was a pseudonym. His real name is Patrick Kirk or something like that."_

"Peter Kirkan_._"

"_Yeah, that sounds right. That was about as far as we got talking about that. Other than that, I don't know much else about her. I'm pretty sure she doesn't have any kids—people always start talking about their kids a couple of weeks into the stay, and she never did—but that's about it. She lived in Bethesda—we compared places to go out and which bars have the better beers, based on what I remembered from being a med student out there—but somehow I don't think that's relevant._"

"Thanks, Colonel," Gibbs replied. "I'll let you know if we have any other questions."

"_Sure thing, Agent Gibbs. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful about the detainees. Can you let me know if you find her?_"

"When, Colonel," Gibbs corrected. "I'll let you know _when_ we find her."


	8. Chapter 8

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 8**

_A/N: Here's what's up with our major players thus far: 1) Dr. Alyse Aachen, an internist at a detainee center in Afghanistan, is still missing. 2) Her husband, Peter Kirkan, a reporter/novelist/former Marine, called his former gunny (Gibbs) to ask for help. He had a video of the abduction, which Abby is analyzing in her lab. In the last chapter, Gibbs told him to go home and try to find any clue as to who might have kidnapped his wife. 3) Gibbs just spoke to the physician for whom Dr. Aachen took over at the detainee center. He didn't have much to offer. 4) Tony and Ziva spoke to Raanan Thal, a Mossad control officer in Afghanistan, in attempts to find more information. They discovered that one of Officer Thal's operatives, Ezra Hardoon, has been missing for a few weeks. Ziva is currently speaking to Director Vance about how to best work with Thal to both free Hardoon and find Dr. Aachen. That's where we are now._

_As for me, I just completed my last night on call in the medical intensive care unit at Walter Reed :) It was a very exhausting month, but very rewarding. Next up: general internal medicine. Hours almost as long, but patients not quite as sick. And I'll be out of scrubs and back into uniform. Interesting set of trade-offs._

* * *

Ziva had used up fifteen of her ten minutes with Director Vance when she reappeared from the director's office and headed down the stairs purposefully. A minute later, Vance himself appeared, barking orders to Cynthia to cancel the rest of his appointments as he similarly strode down the stairs. "He took that well," DiNozzo said dryly as she returned to her desk. She nodded absently, bending down to grab her bag. "Taking off?"

"We are leaving to brief the SecNav," she replied, finally looking over to meet his gaze head-on. He nodded.

"Long briefing?"

"It is likely," she admitted. He knew what that meant; briefings with the Secretary of the Navy, no matter what the topic, rarely lasted all day. If she was going to be gone from the office for hours on end, there was a good chance that she was going to be speaking to no fewer than five bigwigs in the international scene, including someone from Homeland Security, the CIA, Interpol, and possibly the ambassador from Israel. He also knew that she hated days that went like that. For someone who once solved problems very quickly and quietly—and very permanently—with a sniper rifle or a knife, politely talking in circles with bureaucrats left her very frustrated. She glanced over, seeing only McGee in the bullpen. "My place tonight?"

He shook his head quickly. "Mine," he replied. Her eyes narrowed as she frowned, but she nodded her agreement. Rarely did either put much thought into which apartment they slept in, so the fact that he was made her suspect that there was a reason. She didn't have time to think about that, though, as the director was making his way toward her desk, ready to leave to brief the SecNav on the pros and cons of working with Raanan Thal on the release of Ezra Hardoon. He gave her a quick grin. "Good luck."

"You, too," she replied, nodding in the opposite direction, where Gibbs was quickly making his way toward them, a fresh cup of coffee in hand and a determined expression on his face. He passed by Vance without either of them barely hazarding a glance at each other. Ziva cocked an eyebrow slightly; even years after Vance had ascended to the director position, the two still had a very strange working relationship. Well, there wasn't much time to think about that now, as she tossed her bag over her shoulder to follow Vance before returning her attention to DiNozzo. "I will see you tonight. McGee, I will see you tomorrow."

"Later, Ziva." The junior field agent barely looked up as he bid his farewell. Ziva frowned again and glanced over at Tony, who only shrugged at McGee's uncharacteristic response. She made a mental note to ask McGee about it the next day if he wasn't acting more, well, McGee-ish by then. In the meantime, she all but jogged the few steps to the elevator to slide through the doors before they closed.

In the garage, Director Vance barely barked his order for the driver to take them to the Pentagon before sliding into the backseat of the Lincoln, Ziva following close behind. He waited until they had left the gates of the Navy Yard before speaking again. "How much do you trust Officer Thal?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the open folder on his lap. Ziva frowned at the question; over the last few years, she had learned that Vance rarely said or asked what he meant. The key was to figure out what he was really saying.

"She is a Mossad control officer," she finally said. "That requires a great deal of training and is not an easy job, especially for a Jewish woman in Afghanistan." She remembered her comment to Gibbs years before about control officers being promoted young because the good ones were dead at his age. It was true. "I worked closely with her once, years ago." That was when Mossad Officer Raanan Thal was still Second Lieutenant Raanan Thal, a field intelligence officer in the IDF who was a little bit too good at her job. Ziva had just taken over as Ari's control officer when the recently-commissioned lieutenant began asking too many questions to too many people about the extracurricular activities of the infectious disease physician in the Gaza Strip. That was Ziva's first experience with trying to shut someone up with diplomatically-spoken words, instead of thinly-veiled threats or a well-aimed bullet to the skull. Lt. Thal hadn't been satisfied with the answers Ziva provided, and threatened to take what she knew to the most senior officers in her division. Instead, she found herself sitting in Tel Aviv, in the office of Mossad Deputy Director Eli David as he very clearly spelled out what she was and was not allowed to know or say. Three months later, she was in Mossad training. When their paths crossed again years later, she told Ziva that she made the move because she wanted to be the one telling people what they were and were not allowed to know. "She is very dedicated and will do what is necessary to achieve her goals," Ziva continued. "She also has very strong survival instincts. I do not believe that anything she has told me was fabricated to help her cause. She would not handle the consequences of the lie well."

Vance nodded slowly. With his own history working undercover, he knew that one of the most valuable things to learn was who would and would not lie to you, and how damning those lies would be. "She didn't tell you about her agent being captured."

Ziva glared slightly at the back of the driver's seat the reminder. "No," she replied shortly. "And that is something that I will address with her later, after Dr. Aachen is found."

"Does she trust you?"

"Personally, or professionally?"

"Is there a difference?"

Ziva gave a short laugh. "Personally, I think she would not hesitate to shoot me, if she could find the justification for it. Professionally…" Her voice trailed off as she tried to find the words to explain it. "I have a reputation in Mossad as one who should not be underestimated," she said simply. Judging from the thin smile that passed over Vance's face, he understood what she was saying. "And professionally, I would not be willing to go to the Secretary of the Navy with information that I did not completely believe."

Vance nodded at that, and she figured that that was what he was asking all along. They were silent the rest of the drive to the Pentagon, where Ziva's Mossad credentials got more than a few raised eyebrows, even when combined with the Pentagon clearance she held, a necessity for the all-to-frequent sessions with the Secretary of the Navy. Although he wasn't the same SecNav who set up the Domino war game that resulted in Tony getting knocked unconscious because of _her_ impulsive actions, the position would always be sullied for her because of that incident. The fact that the current SecNav bore an unfortunate resemblance to Mossad Director Ruthven didn't help his case much.

And like Director Ruthven, Secretary Holley liked to show his influence by making people wait longer than necessary at his office before having his administrative assistant show them in. Ziva was starting to get visibly annoyed at the power play by the time they were finally escorted in to the large office, having to repeatedly tell herself to calm down before she did something she might regret later, such as breaking the neck of the Secretary of the United States Navy. She found herself amused at the mental pictures of that playing through her head and sighed inwardly at how bad of an influence Tony was on her. Or maybe it was a good influence; a few years ago, she wouldn't have limited herself to mental pictures.

"Leon. Officer David." She glanced up sharply at the familiar sound of Secretary Holley's voice and rose from her chair when he waved them into his office. She still hadn't figured out if the use of her title was a slight or a sign of respect; that was one of the many Americanisms she doubted she'd ever fully grasp. One referred to people in professional positions by their title, unless they were close friends. But people in very high positions, such as the Secretary of the Navy, seemed to like to throw around how well connected they were by referring to other people in very high positions colloquially, using a title for everyone else, to show that they weren't in the circle. She wondered if Tony would be able to offer any insights, but then decided it wasn't worth the pain such a question would gather. He would ask a dozen follow-up questions and tease her incessantly about why she wanted to know, and then probably continue to bring it up for years to come. He just never seemed to be able to let anything go. Not for the first time, she wondered how she had fallen in love with someone who annoyed her so much.

"Cynthia told Darrie that it was urgent," Secretary Holley said as he waved them into the plush seats at the opposite side of his impressive desk, before taking a seat at said desk. That was another power play; Ziva didn't need to understand Americanisms for that one. "I had to cancel half of my afternoon appointments. I'm supposed to be meeting with Admiral Coleman right now." Ziva couldn't care less about his name dropping, and mentally waved it aside.

"This is urgent," Vance said in that usual slow, purposeful voice he used when about to drop a bombshell. He moved is mouth slowly, the way he would roll a toothpick in his teeth, had he had one. "Navy physician was abducted from Camp Phoenix earlier this morning." He paused a beat before adding, "A physician caring for the detainees at Camp Phoenix."

That got Secretary Holley's attention. "And you think they're related."

"It's our best lead so far, Mark," Vance replied. Secretary Holley's eyes turned to Ziva, and she knew that was her cue. She had observed from countless such meetings in the last year and a half, since her father died and Director Ruthven took over, and knew that this was the time for the subtle dance of figuring out how far the other side would go. She had actually gotten pretty good at that game in that time, but wasn't really in the mood to play.

"A Mossad control officer operating in Afghanistan lost contact with her operative after an American… clean-up, yes?" Vance nodded slightly, indicating that that was close enough. "Since then, she has been looking into American detainee camps in efforts of getting him out." She let the implied threat sink in: without their cooperation, Thal would not only expose a detainee camp—possibly a few of them, in the course of her search—but also leave it open for insurgents to attack.

"As a foreign intelligence operative, we don't owe this Mossad—"

"She's not done, Mark." Secretary Holley glared briefly over at Vance, but then waved for Ziva to continue.

"After a few weeks as a detainee, the operative would know things about the Taliban that we do not know," she pointed out. "They talk amongst themselves, and if anyone knows about Dr. Aachen's whereabouts and who is behind his abduction, he will find out." One thing that she had always been able to count on in her years of intelligence work was how stupid men got when they were trying to brag amongst themselves. Saying something in front of someone who wasn't supposed to have heard was more the rule than the exception; Tony had once likened it to a football locker room, and while she didn't fully grasp the comparison, she thinks she knows what he was talking about. "In addition, his control officer has reason to believe that two captured Marines are being held with several IDF soldiers captured by Taliban insurgents during a patrol several months ago. This intelligence has not been verified and may not be true, but it is the first anyone has heard about these two officers since their plane went down, and likely merits looking onto." The brief look of confusion that crossed Secretary Holley's face told her that she had probably misstated something, but the determination that followed indicated that it was close enough.

"I agree," he stated flatly. "Work with this control officer on verifying it. I also want to know everything about this Mossad operative we'd be busting out. The last thing I want is to find out that we're getting into a potentially disasterous international incident for a maverick spy who doesn't play by the rules."

Ziva snorted, despite herself. "He is a spy, Mr. Secretary. By definition, he does not play by the rules."

He glared briefly at the words, but didn't say anything in response. "I'll brief Secretary Clinton on the situation. We'll determine what action this warrants."

She blinked in surprise. "We are talking about at least three United States officers—"

"Which is nothing compared to the number who could lose their lives if this causes an escalation in the situation in the Middle East."

She stared at him incredulously. "The situation in the—," she began harshly before Director Vance cleared his throat.

"That is enough, Officer David," he said firmly before turning to Secretary Holley and nodding slightly. "Thank you for your time, Mark."

Holley rose to his feet and extended his arm. "Any time, Leon." His eyes traveled over to Ziva. "Officer David."

"Secretary Holley," she replied stiffly, also rising. She shook the SecNav's hand before turning and walking out of the office.

As before, Vance stepped into the waiting car first, Ziva sliding in a second later. "Israel embassy," Vance barked to his driver. Seeing the frown on Ziva's face, he explained, "You're going to talk to Officer Bashan and find out everything there is about Ezra Hardoon. If his parents are alive, I want to know what they ate for breakfast this morning."

"If this is about Secretary Holley's comments—"

"He's right."

She glared at nothing in particular. "It is a political move meant to—"

"Politics is a game. People who have our jobs are used to playing with our own set of rules. _Smart_ people with our jobs know when it's time to play with theirs." He let that sink in before changing the subject. "You pull this off—successfully retrieving both Hardoon and Dr. Aachen—you're not going to have a hard time convincing your director to let you stay in DC." He paused a beat before adding, "Or anywhere else you want to go." When she didn't respond to that, he continued. "Agent Burley still has another year of his term in Bahrain. There will likely be openings in Seoul, London, Yuma, New Orleans, Bremerton, and Rota before then."

She frowned. "Those are all subordinate offices," she pointed out. She shuddered at the thought of being sent to Yuma, Arizona or Bremerton, Washington; neither was exactly a place that required someone with her particular skill set.

"The Europe MCRT is going to be moving from Naples to Rota within the year," Vance informed her. He finally looked fully at her, his expression as unreadable as always. "That seems to be more in Agent DiNozzo's area of expertise than counterintelligence and anti-terrorism in Bahrain."

Her frown deepened. It had been about a year since Tony had told her that he wanted to take over for Stan Burley when that agent's term was complete; a year of teaching him Arabic and Hebrew, introducing him to her contacts, keeping him informed on the types of current events in the Middle East that _Newsweek_ and _The New York Times_ weren't privy to. She knew he was trying hard to impress on Vance that he wasn't just a second-string crime scene investigator who was too quick with the jokes, with a useless college major and history of jumping from one job to the next. She wondered how he would take the knowledge that his efforts had failed. "That is something you would have to discuss with Agent DiNozzo," she finally replied. Vance nodded knowingly. They rode the rest of the way to the Israel embassy in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 9  
**  
_A/N: Okay, time for a new chapter, which means it's also time for a recap. In the search for Dr. Aachen, who went missing less than twenty-four hours ago (sure seems like longer when there's only one chapter every third day, doesn't it?), Abby and McGee are working to analyze the video of her abduction, Gibbs has spoken to another physician who had worked at the detainee center at Camp Phoenix (and who was no help at all), and Tony and Ziva talked to a Mossad control officer in Afghanistan, Raanan Thal, who doesn't know anything about the abduction, but does know that one of her undercover operatives was captured by the Americans a few weeks before, and has offered to share any intel that he has gathered if NCIS aids in his release. Since that conversation, Ziva has spent the entire day in her duties as liaison officer, proposing Thal's plan to everyone from Director Vance to the SecNav to officials at the Israel Embassy. _

_And now, back to the story._

* * *

It was later than anticipated when Tony DiNozzo finally swung his blue 1965 Mustang into his parking space at his apartment. He sat there for a minute, unmoving as he listened to the sounds of the engine cooling down. It had been a long day—it had been a long _week_, between Ziva's subconscious paranoia and short fuse to this new case to the news that Ziva might only have another six months in DC before Director Ruthven found something 'more relevant'—and infinitely more dangerous—for her to do. The 'more dangerous' didn't necessarily bother him, at least as much as he thought it would—after all, he knew her training and knew that she was more than capable of taking care of herself—but he certainly wasn't thrilled about the part involving her being sent to places unknown, where she likely wouldn't be able to contact him and let him know that she was okay. Or to come to his apartment and hide random weapons in new places every few weeks, clutter his bathroom with her lotions and hair products and makeup, complain about the mess, hog the blankets while she slept… And then there was the sex. He grinned at that. It wasn't the only thing he loved about her by any means, but he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't miss it if she was gone.

He finally stepped out of the car, grabbing his bag before heading for the parking garage's elevator. Three minutes later, he had his key in the lock of his apartment door, only to discover that Ziva must have beat him there—she left it unlocked. "Hey," he called out as he crossed the threshold. On his next breath, he caught a whiff of something that smelled delicious and grimaced guiltily. "Sorry I'm so late," he said. "I was planning on making dinner."

"Something good?" Ziva asked from where she was reclining on his couch, her work clothes abandoned in favor of jeans and one of his Ohio State hoodies, a thick book on her lap.

"Sausage and peppers," he replied, placing his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes. He caught Ziva's eye and bent down, picking up the shoes to return them to the closet. And they said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks. "I bought that Italian turkey sausage you approve of."

"Hmm," she murmured as she carefully placed the bookmark in her book before rising from the couch. Tony's sausage and peppers pasta was one of the dishes that he did really well. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Assuming Gibbs doesn't keep us there all night," he grumbled. Ziva smiled slightly at that as she laced her arms around his waist, under his suit jacket, and tilted her head up. He bent down to kiss her lightly. "Mmm. Hi," he said when they separated.

"Hello," she replied. She continued to give him that enigmatic smile, the one that never failed to make him wonder what she was thinking, as she reached over and turned off the burner under their dinner. He grinned, knowing where this was going, before she leaned forward to kiss him again, this time harder and deeper than before. His hands tangled in her hair, dislodging the simple band that had held it in a ponytail and out of her face, releasing it just long enough for Ziva to slip his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the hardwood floor.

When they separated again, he caught a familiar gleam in her eye, and barely had enough time to brace himself before she literally jumped into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck. He could feel her grinning into the kiss as he stumbled toward the bedroom, grateful, not for the first time, that it was such a short distance between the kitchen and the bed.

After a round of love-making—Ziva could only assume that this was make-up sex, in light of their recent arguing, although there was rarely any discernible difference in the action itself—they laid quietly in bed, tangled in the sheets and each other, their breathing the only sound that could be heard in the apartment before Tony began chuckling. "If this is what happens when you spend the day in briefings and meetings with important people, you should do that more often," he joked.

"A more likely effect to more frequent meetings would be for me to lash out and kill somebody and spend the rest of my life in a federal prison," Ziva replied, her eyes closed in a half-asleep state that she knew she would have to completely wake herself from in a few minutes. "And then you would never see me."

"Do they give people arrested for assassination of state officials conjugal visits?" he joked, keeping up the light banter.

"I do not know, but it is an irrelevant question. I believe we would have to be married to have conjugal visits." She wondered if it was her half-asleep state that was causing her to speak without thinking; although said the words lightly, she knew that they struck a nerve—if not in him, they certainly did in her. He had asked her once to marry him; she had said it wasn't the right time. Neither had brought it up since, but Ziva knew he still had the ring and that he kept it in a box on the top shelf of his closet. She had found it a few months before while looking for one of her .22s that she had somehow misplaced. She remembered staring at it for what seemed like hours, wondering what her life would be like if she had said yes and wondering why she was wondering. She didn't vocalized any of those things, however, and they lapsed into silence once again, which was enough for Ziva to feel herself beginning to drift off, the stress of the last week and her work that day catching up with her.

"Move in with me," Tony said abruptly. Ziva sighed and fully woke up, beginning to dislodge herself from the bed and the blankets that currently connected her to it.

"Your apartment is too small for all of the stuff that we both own," she replied. She should have figured this was coming; since returning from Israel a year and a half before, she could count on Tony asking about once every third month. The question, and the excuses she gave, were beginning to be routine, but they both went through the motions anyway. She wondered what she would do if he stopped asking; she didn't want to think about that.

"We can get a new place together. A two-bedroom," he replied, often the next step in the scripted argument. He propped himself up on one elbow at watched as she pulled on a pair of panties before shrugging into that same over-sized Buckeyes hoodie. She didn't bother with the jeans. Or a bra. He was temporarily distracted from the conversation as he contemplated the implications of those missing pieces of clothing.

"We both have too many months left on our leases," she pointed out, bringing him back to the present.

"Why didn't we think about this last time we renewed our leases?" She frowned at the question and mentally counted back the months. "Oh," Tony said, having done the same thing and realizing why.

"That was when we were broken out."

"_Up_," he corrected. "Yeah. I remember." That lasted about six weeks, during which one or the other would, without fail, show up at the other's apartment at least once a week. Those evenings always ended up with them yelling at each other - and sleeping together. They knew that they had been doing a good job - maybe _too_ good of a job - keeping the relationship out of the workplace when those six weeks had gone by without anyone realizing that they had broken up. "Anyway, we can sublet." She sighed quietly, prompting him to add, "If you don't want to, you can just say so."

She stared at him from across the bed for a long minute. "I love you," she stated, rather matter-of-factly. Now it was his turn to sigh.

"I know." He also knew that the discussion was over and he shouldn't press it. "Do you want to talk about whatever it is that's on your mind?" Although he would never complain about it, getting jumped in the kitchen within minutes of walking into the apartment was hardly usual.

She continued to give him that unreadable stare for a long minute before she turned away, looking for a hair tie amidst the random things she had strewn over the top of his dresser. "Over dinner," she finally replied, gathering up her hair into a thick ponytail as she headed out of the bedroom. "I will reheat the sauce."

Despite the time it had been sitting out on the stove, dinner - a pansoti that, like the sauce, was probably made from scratch - was delicious and had likely taken her several hours to make, and made Tony wonder just when she had gotten there and what she was trying to soften him up for. He swirled his glass of wine contemplatively before bringing it to his lips for a sip, watching her closely until she spoke. "After meeting with the SecNav, Vance drove me to the embassy to speak with Caleb." Officer Caleb Bashan had taken over for his uncle as the senior Mossad officer at the Israel embassy several months before, further supporting DiNozzo's claim—which Ziva denied vehemently—that cushy Mossad positions were determined more by nepotism than anything else.

"And how is he?" Tony asked at the long pause after her words. "He doesn't want us over for dinner again, does he? Because that kid of his bites."

She smiled slightly, but shook her head. "He is fine, and he did not say anything about dinner. We spent our time going through Hardoon's file. But it is not my conversation with Caleb that I wanted to tell you about."

"So… What is it?" He frowned, trying to figure out what could have left her feeling unhinged enough—or guilty enough—for the full dinner. And jumping him in the kitchen. Again, a slight smirk crossed his face, making Ziva roll her eyes.

"On our way to the embassy, Vance mentioned that if we solve this case and find both Hardoon and Dr. Aachen alive, that it would likely justify my position in NCIS, convincing Director Ruthven to keep me in DC. Or, I could use it as leverage to get a position elsewhere, such as—"

"Ziva," he interrupted. He had figured out that much already, and figured she knew that. "What did Vance say?"

She sighed quietly, her eyes not meeting his. He followed her gaze and frowned when he realized that she was looking at the thick novel that she had left on his coffee table, and his frown deepened when he realized that it was one of his Spanish literature texts from college that he kept because he couldn't get any money selling it back: _Fortunata y Jacinta_, by Benito Perez Galdos. He honestly couldn't remember what it was about or if he had even read it, but he could only think of one reason why Ziva would be polishing her Spanish skills. "There will be a number of other team leader positions that will be available before Agent Burley leaves Bahrain," she said reluctantly.

"Including Rota," he guessed. She blinked, surprised that he had figured it out, but nodded. He snorted. "Great. I'm in the same position now as I was four years ago." She knew about his past job offer from Director Shepard, just as she knew his reason for turning it down.

"The Europe MCRT is going to be moving from Naples to Rota in a few months," she said, "so Rota is a more senior position now than it was four years ago." He could tell that she was trying to justify it to herself as much as to him, and sighed.

"What about _your_ job?" he asked. "Don't try telling me that there's a large Mossad presence in Rota, Spain."

"No," she admitted. "But, I have a friend in Interpol who has unofficially said that they are interested in offering me a job, should I suddenly enter the job market."

"You would do that?" he asked. "You would leave Mossad, to move with me to Rota?"

"I have told you already, Tony. I will go with you when you get your own team. Mossad is just a job," she said with a frown. "It is not a lifelong commitment." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back, for what they implied and for what they said outright. "That is not to say—"

"You don't have to say it," he interrupted. He knew better than to expect a declaration of commitment from a woman who couldn't bring herself to consider cohabitation. He was just strangely pleased to know that, at least somewhere deep down inside, she was thinking it. He wondered if there was an actual point when that thought stopped freaking him out and started making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

"But nothing is decided yet," she said quickly, trying to redirect the conversation. "In a way, this case is just as important for deciding the path of your career as it is for mine."

"To prove that I can play with the big boys in the anti-terrorism game and keep me on the short list for Bahrain," DiNozzo stated. Ziva nodded. "No pressure or anything," he said dryly. She gave a tight smile as she took another sip of wine.

"This better have a positive conclusion," she said, her tone just as dry as his had been. "I do not think either of us would do well in Yuma, Arizona."


	10. Chapter 10

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 10**

_A/N: In the search for Dr. Alyse Aachen, many avenues are being explored; unfortunately, most of them are actually dead-ends. Abby is still trying to get something out of the video of the abduction; Gibbs has spoken to a physician who used to work with Dr. Aachen; and Tony and Ziva have spoken to a Mossad officer in Afghanistan who hadn't heard anything about any of the terrorist cells in the area wanting Dr. Aachen specifically or a physician in general. She did promise to assist in their investigation, if NCIS helped her find her captured operative. Ziva proposed the plan to everyone capable of making such decisions; they're waiting for them to decide. On a more personal front, Director Vance has hinted to Ziva that if they are successful in finding Dr. Aachen and Mossad operative Ezra Hardoon, it could go a long way in getting Tony his own team (somewhere that may or not be his top choice of Bahrain) and Ziva going with him, something that she has already told them she would do._

_And now, onto Peter Kirkan, who is going through his correspondence with his wife, trying to find any clues._

* * *

_"You know what I miss most about DC?"_

_"Spending time with your loving husband?"_

_She gave him a sheepish smile, and he chuckled. "Well, other than the obvious, of course."_

_"Of course."_

_This time, she laughed outright. "What I was going to say, before you decided to send me on a guilt trip with no return, was champagne brunches at Ardeo."_

_"Ah. I keep meaning to go there sometime."_

_She grinned again. "You know that Sunday brunch is just the girls. I also miss half priced bottles of wine at Olazzo on Mondays, though, and you can't whine about being left out of that one." She paused. "No pun intended." _

_"Of course not." She grinned. "I've never really figured it out, Allie. How does a Navy internist become 'one of the girls' with a Navy surgeon, an Army surgeon, and an Army preventive medicine doc?"_

_"I've told you before, Pete. It was Ellie's fault." She rolled her eyes, her smile still on her face. "We roomed together at UW before going our separate ways—and into our separate services—for med school. Then she matches at Walter Reed and I end up at Bethesda, and she drags me into her group of Army friends. I brought Colleen along to even things out a bit. And as life and residency obligations started interfering with hanging out with the girls, our group gradually dwindled to me, Colleen, Jess, and Ellie."_

_He nodded. "You hear anything new from any of them, by the way?"_

_"Colleen is still happily cutting up children for 'eighty hours a week' in her pediatric surgery fellowship at Washington Children's and staying busy enough that she hasn't majorly sabotaged her personal life in at least a month. Jess' program is six years, so she's in her last year—chief resident of general surgery at Walter Reed. You heard that she'll be at Baltimore Shock/Trauma for a trauma fellowship next year, right?" She didn't wait for a response before continuing. "And I just got an email from Ellie the other day. She said that she and Wyatt are staying busy, but enjoying being in the Philippines on their humanitarian deployment, doing good things and all that crap. At least, that's what Ellie is doing. She was kinda vague about what Wyatt is doing, which makes me think that he's probably wandering the jungles of the Philippines, being some macho surgeon with some SF unit in support of OEF-P." She sighed. "Operation Enduring Freedom-Philippines aside, how did Ellie get the Philippines and I get Afghanistan? It's really not fair. Just because she's a tropical medicine specialist and I'm a general internist…" She shrugged and grinned. "She'll probably end up here at some point, with the 10__th__ Mountain. That seems to be where Army preventive medicine docs get sent."_

_"We won't still be in Afghanistan when her turn for deployment comes up again, will we?"_

_She rolled her eyes. "We'll be here forever, Pete. Hell, just look at Iraq; _you_ were sent there, and you left the Corps a hundred years ago."_

_"I may be old, babe, but I'm not _that_ old."_

Peter Kirkan sighed and paused the video at Alyse's wide grin at that last comment. He had been working backwards through the recordings of their conversations, trying to find any hint that there was someone—or a group of someones—who wanted her out of that camp, but so far, all he had discovered was that she had been running even more than he realized—three times in six months, she had requested that he send her another pair of running shoes, which she wore for five hundred miles prior to getting a replacement pair—and that she was doing a better job of staying in touch with their friends from her hut in Afghanistan than he was from a few miles away from them.

His notes, like those of most reporters he knew, were written in a short-hand that he invented and only he could read—even Alyse threw her hands in the air in frustration when trying to decipher his words, and that was just the grocery list. He now had three pages of notes, representing the last month of their conversations, and all he had learned—in addition to the fact that she was now running an average of forty to sixty miles a week—was that Captain Nichole Stover, the lone Marine captain sharing a hut with five female Navy lieutenants, was terrible at cutting hair; Marines don't like to take their anti-malarial medications; nobody minded if you took a second serving at the dining hall; and Dr. Jayashri Ting—Jess—was having relationship issues with her long-time boyfriend. Not exactly things worth kidnapping a physician for, and in the case of Jess and Bryan, he would have been a lot more surprised—not to mention concerned about the possibility of an international conspiracy—if Alyse had reported that they in agreement and moving forward in their relationship.

He got up and paced the condo, trying to figure out what he was missing. He knew that after the sleepless night he had the night before that he should get some sleep, but he knew that if he closed his eyes, all he would see was the fear in his wife's blue eyes the instant before that hood descended over her face, cutting her off from him with a finality he couldn't help but worry was permanent.

---

Even hours after the normal working day ended, the NCIS building was still far from silent, but the sounds that surrounded Gibbs as he remained rooted at the desk were much different than those during the day. There were no junior agents buzzing around him, no ringing telephones, no chiming of the elevators. Instead, there was a floor buffer running somewhere a few floors below him, a vacuum on the other side of the squad room, and the endless monologue of his thoughts running through Gibbs' head.

_"Because it's about my wife_." His thoughts kept coming back to Kirkan's simple words and the matter-of-fact way he spoke them, and he couldn't help remember the events that prompted that statement. He could still see and feel everything about that moment; the intense desert sun beating down on him, the endless glare of the sand through his Oakley sunglasses, the feeling that no amount of water will ever rehydrate him, the small targets hundreds of yards away that he was trying to keep himself focused on, the harsh _crack_ of the line of sniper rifles to his left. He had pulled his eyes from the scope to correct one of the snipers, only to see that that shooter's spotter was already doing so, his voice too low for Gibbs to hear as he murmured commands into the sniper's ear, gesturing toward his own scope and speaking of the calculations he had been taught to do in head his within seconds. The young Marine behind the sniper rifle had nodded and made corrections, and the spotter had glanced up and locked eyes with Gibbs before the gunny had nodded his silent approval at the actions.

Prior to 0100 that morning, that was the last he had seen or heard from Corporal Peter Kirkan.

It was barely two minutes after that that their CO had approached, a grave expression on his face as he asked to speak to Gibbs privately, away from the line of young Marines shooting at nothing to keep from getting bored while waiting to fight a war most didn't understand. Gibbs had barked at them to carry on before following the colonel away. He figured from the way the man he considered a friend was hesitating and trying to find the words that this would be news he wouldn't want to hear, but he never imagined that it could be the words that eventually came out of the colonel's mouth. _"They're dead, Gunny. Both of them."_

The emergency leave paperwork had already been filed, maybe because the colonel really was a friend, or maybe because a grieving and angry scout sniper didn't do anybody any good, but again, life seemed determined to kick him while he was down. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a Navy hospital in Kuwait with a tube down his throat and a neurologist telling him to calm down. As if that would be possible. Even now, twenty years later, he could see blue eyes filling with tears that didn't want to spill over, could hear a small voice begging him not to go, could hear his own promises that everything would be okay.

He was glad he told her that he loved her right before he stepped onto the plane. He would hate to think that his last words to Kelly were a lie.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he could again hear the floor buffer and the vacuum cleaner and the chatter of the late-night cleaning crew in their Somalian or Ethiopian or whatever language that was as they did their work, his own thoughts banished to the back of his mind. He returned his attention to his computer screen and clicked on his email, opening a new attachment and clicking to print the pages.

He had felt a little guilty when he called downstairs to NCIS Intelligence, asking them to run a background check, but that feeling of guilt barely lasted a second after he reminded himself of why he needed it. He promised Kirkan that he would do everything he could and look into every possibility in order to find the former corporal's wife, and failing to do that wouldn't do anybody any good.

He gathered the pile of papers from the printer before returning to his desk. Slipping on his reading glasses, he leaned back in his chair and began reading the file.

_Kirkan, Cpl (Ret) Peter R., United States Marine Corps._


	11. Chapter 11

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 11**

_A/N: To summarize the search for Dr. Alyse Aachen thus far: Abby is analyzing the video of the abduction. Gibbs spoke to a physician Dr. Aachen worked with in Afghanistan - and didn't learn anything. Tony and Ziva are waiting for approval from the State Department and Department of the Navy to work with Mossad Officer Raanan Thal in attempts to get more information, while trying to figure out what Director Vance's mindgames mean for them and their careers and their relationship. Peter Kirkan is going through past conversations with his wife, trying to find clues, and Gibbs is, in turn, looking into the man he knew twenty years before._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo groaned at the sound of his alarm going off, much earlier than any alarm clock in the country should be going off. "Not today," he murmured into his pillow, rolling away from the sound and taking his blankets with him. Instead of returning the gesture with an equal tug of her own, Ziva just leaned over him and turned off the alarm.

"You do not have to join me," she commented as she climbed out of bed. He groaned and dramatically threw away the covers.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered. "Why the hell do you have to insist on running at 0500, anyway?" he grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom. Ziva just rolled her eyes and began dressing for their run.

In early March, the air was still cold as they wound their way through the familiar streets. They ran without speaking for the first couple of miles, their breaths fogging in front of them, the sounds of their feet on the sidewalk and the occasional car driving by to break the silence. "Is Thal really going to help us?" Tony finally asked as they rounded a corner. They ran another block without speaking as Ziva considered both the question and her answer. They didn't often talk about work while running—or any other time that they weren't at work—which occasionally created long periods of time when they didn't talk about much at all. There wasn't much to their lives other than work and Tony's movies, and Ziva could only stand conversations about Hollywood's greatest moments in small doses.

"Yes," she finally answered, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, not turning to glance over at him. "It is a mutually beneficial arrangement. She would not gain anything by backing up on the agreement."

"Out," he corrected with an absent grin, his eyes similarly looking forward. "Backing _out_."

"Yes, that," she replied quickly. They were running a little slower than their usual pace, which she was able to recognize as, but smart enough not to comment on, being a result of the cold air on Tony's plague-scarred lungs. "We still have yet to hear if the SecNav or the Secretary of State is willing to cooperate and release Hardoon's location."

"True," he conceded. They ran another two blocks without speaking before he said, "This doesn't feel right."

"Your lungs?" she asked without thinking. He frowned and glanced over at her before his eyes returned to the sidewalk. As if responding to an unspoken challenge, he picked up the pace. Ziva had no problems keeping up.

"My lungs are fine," he said tersely. "I meant with the case."

"Oh."

"You really think there's something wrong with my breathing?"

"Tony…"

"I may be going a little slower this morning, but as I recall, last night, you—"

"_Tony_."

"What?"

"The case?" She mentally rolled her eyes at how he appeared to get side-tracked so easily. She knew it was just one of his _things_, a way of keeping one step ahead of his adversaries by catching them off-guard with sudden competence after making them think he was a bumbling idiot. Based on the argumentative nature of their relationship, _she_ was more often than not that adversary. Unfortunately for Tony, she wasn't so easily fooled, and she learned long ago that despite his joking nature, he was far from being idiotic.

He gave her a quick grin, and this time she _did_ roll her eyes, but then he became serious. "Nothing about this is adding up. We know she was targeted specifically. The guy waited for her in her office. He waited for her to get on the webcam, so we assume he wanted this known, but we haven't heard any follow-up demands. And then there's the logistics of the whole situation."

"How they knew that she would be in her office, how they knew who to capture," Ziva filled in. She couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at hearing Tony's line of thinking out loud. He was a dogged investigator, she knew that—always asking questions, not giving up until he was satisfied. What she was proud of was that he had learned to apply that not only to murderers and embezzlers, but to the terrorism arena as well. It wasn't an easy aspect of crime to understand, but he was certainly on his way there. She just wished Vance was able to see that as well.

"Right," he agreed with a nod. "We don't know yet if any detainees were taken as well, because we can't get in touch with anyone who will tell us a damned thing. And if they were," he paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts and catching his breath while trying to appear that he wasn't catching his breath, "why get them from a closely guarded base, instead of attacking a convoy while they were in transit?"

"This may be related to the attack on the convoy a few hours previous," Ziva reminded him.

"But that still doesn't answer why they would take her from her office or how they knew how to find her office," he pointed out. "Or how they got on base. Or why. She went outside the wire to help bring in casualties. If they wanted her specifically, or a doctor in general, they should have taken her then, when things were too chaotic for anyone to notice until a few hours later."

"Good point," she agreed. "There is also the question of why her specifically."

"You don't think it has to do with her work with the detainees?" This time, he looked over at her and frowned, trying to follow her line of thinking.

She shook her head quickly. "That is what I am trying to say," she explained. "It is what needs to be determined. It is unlikely that she was taken to provide medical care."

"Because she's a she."

"Yes. If these are radical Muslims seeking medical care, they would not take a female physician."

"So if they weren't just looking for a new primary care physician…?"

"Then it is probably because she said or heard something that she should not have." He felt an involuntary chill down his spine as he suddenly realized that they were in even more of a time-crunch than they previously thought. "It is also possible that her mere presence in the detainee center was offensive to them," Ziva continued. "In addition, we can not exclude the possibility that this is an action of revenge. If a detainee had died under her care, it is possible that members of his cell would hold her personally responsible and would like their vengeance."

He was silent as he considered this, not wanting to but having no choice. Things were not looking good for Dr. Aachen. "If that's what this is," he began, "how long would they keep her alive?"

Ziva considered this as they ran another block. "If they are after vengeance and are patient and angry, they will draw out their torture," she finally said. "If they think that she knows something, they would be pressing for information. In those cases, the questions we need to ask are, how diligent would they be, and how long would Dr. Aachen be able to hold out to torture?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 12**

_A/N: Sorry about the delay since last chapter. Life has been amazingly hectic, and the sad thing is, all I do is go to work. Ugh. I was up all last night on call, because it seemed like every time I managed to get everything settled to the point where I could lay down, my pager was going off again. I'm not happy with the entire fourth and seventh floors of Walter Reed._

_Anyway, enough about that. When we last checked in with the story, Peter Kirkan was going through old conversations with his wife, trying to find clues as to who might have abducted her and why. Tony and Ziva are waiting to find out if they can proceed with their plan to help Mossad Officer Raanan Thal and her operative, Ezra Hardoon, in exchange for any information they might have on terrorists in the area in general and anyone who might have been interested in Dr. Aachen in particular, and have come to the chilling conclusion that whatever reason a terrorist cell would have to want Dr. Aachen, it would not be a good one. And Gibbs, in his efforts to look into every possibility and leave no stone unturned, asked the Intelligence department at NCIS to come up with a dossier on Kirkan himself. _

* * *

Despite his late night in the office the night before, Gibbs was among the first to the squad room the next morning, his customary cup of coffee fresh enough to still be steaming as he stepped off the elevator. Everything on his desk was exactly as he had left it only a few hours before—it had taken them awhile, but the cleaning crew eventually learned to keep a wide radius around the supervisory special agent's desk—and his eyes went immediately to the print-out of Intelligence's report on Kirkan. He barely stifled a sigh as he stared at the offending document, both at the lingering feeling of having invaded the privacy of one of his former Marines and how little those pages had revealed. It was just as he suspected and Kirkan all but confirmed; he wasn't interesting enough to have enemies, not of the sort who would make their way to Afghanistan to abduct his wife. After leaving the Corps at twenty-four, he majored in physics and minored in English literature at the University of Texas. There were a couple of jobs with little significance, just doing this and that, before he went back to school for his Master's degree in journalism. He was hired by _Stars and Stripes_ before the ink was dry on his diploma and made his way to DC, where he eventually met Dr. Alyse Aachen. Gregory Aachen's first novel, _Burn Away_, hit the shelves a month before their wedding; his second, _Secret Lives of War_, on their first anniversary. _Skyscrapers at Dawn_ came out after that, and the fourth, _One Way Street_, was still on _The New York Times_' bestseller's list, with rumors of a fifth in the works. And if the Intelligence department could be trusted, Kirkan's statement the day before about being able to afford his own coffee was so much of an understatement that it was almost laughable. It would be a safe bet to say that Alyse Aachen wasn't a Navy doctor because they needed the money.

After a few moments of staring silently at the lengthy document, not moving except to intermittently bring his cup of coffee to his mouth, Gibbs made a decision. He gathered the pile of papers and strode decisively toward the elevator.

"Ah, Jethro." Dr. Donald Mallard's voice drifted out as the doors to Autopsy slid open to reveal the supervisory field agent. Although Gibbs hadn't been expecting to see the medical examiner in so early, he wasn't necessarily surprised by it, either. Neither man could have ever been accused of keeping conventional hours. What did surprise him was that instead of a body displayed on the cold stainless steel autopsy table, Ducky had a small library of books, newspapers, and loose sheets of papers.

"Need you to do a psychological autopsy for me, Duck," Gibbs declared, not caring what the elderly Scotsman had already been working on.

"Dr. Alyse Aachen?" Ducky said mildly, clearly not surprised by the request. "Or perhaps Peter Kirkan?" Gibbs frowned, prompting him to add, "Abigail was in here last night, telling me about your newest case. Rather, she was telling me of her frustrations with her work on your newest case. She is not having as much success with the new software from the FBI as she had hoped." Gibbs stifled a sigh at that news; Abby was one of the best, so if she couldn't do it, it wasn't likely anyone else could. "I took the liberty of looking into our missing young physician before taking off for home last night, and I was intrigued enough by what I had found that I returned early this morning to continue."

"And what did you find, Duck?"

"About Dr. Aachen, I am sure nothing that you would find relevant. It is her relationship with Mr. Kirkan that I find interesting." He lapsed into silence for a minute as he searched for whatever it was that proved his point. "I understand that you knew him from your days in the Corps." It was a statement, not a question, one born of as much idle curiosity as a genuine need to know.

"He was one of my Marines," Gibbs said as a confirmation.

"In Kuwait?" Ducky asked when his friend didn't offer any further explanation.

"That relevant, Duck?"

"I am merely gathering as much information as possible for my psychological analysis." The two men were silent for several long minutes before Gibbs spoke again.

"He was part of Desert Shield and Desert Storm," the former gunnery sergeant finally offered. "Scout sniper. He was a spotter."

"Was he any good?"

"Made it through the training."

Ducky smiled slightly at Gibbs' explanation. "I suppose he must have had a way with words." Gibbs frowned.

"Because he's now a writer?"

"Well, yes," the medical examiner admitted, "But I was thinking more about how he managed to court his wife after this article he wrote, although it is possible that she did not know about it. According to the timeline I've constructed of Dr. Aachen's career, she was a flight surgeon aboard the _Vinson_ when it was published. He wrote an editorial about how unprepared Navy physicians were when they were sent to the field."

"She knew," Gibbs confirmed. "That article was how they met."

"Hmm," Ducky murmured. "Which gets back to my original question of how he managed to ask her out for a date after writing the article. I don't know if you've read it, Jethro, but despite being very eloquently written and supported with good research and solid facts, it is rather inflammatory against Navy physicians. He even states his own experiences in the Navy healthcare system as an example." Ducky frowned at the words on the page as he studied the article. "He must have been in extreme pain," he murmured.

"Didn't think he was injured in combat."

"Oh, no, it wasn't in combat," Dr. Mallard was quick to explain. "It was shortly after Mr. Kirkan completed his basic training. He had gone into sick call several times with complaints of leg pain and tripping while he ran, earning diagnoses ranging from malingering to lack of conditioning to tight muscles. It wasn't until he saw a senior orthopedic surgeon that he was diagnosed with stress fractures of the tibia and bilateral compartment syndrome."

"He had scars," Gibbs recalled with a frown. "On his calves."

"Three vertical scars on each leg?" Ducky asked. Gibbs nodded. "Bilateral triple-compartment fasciotomies," the doctor explained, as if that would make any sense to Gibbs. "The pressures from necrotic muscle in his legs were so great that they had to be cut open to relieve it. It is amazing he was able to run at scout sniper standards after that." He drifted off slightly before resuming at the previous volume and tempo. "It is unfortunately not uncommon among active duty personnel. Probably one out of a hundred visitors I have to this room bear similar scars."

"Ran just fine, from what I recall, Duck."

"A truly remarkable recovery." He frowned as he tried to remember the point he was trying to make. "His own physical accomplishments aside, Jethro, it is not what got my attention about the situation."

"Her reaction to the article."

Ducky pointed with his finger for emphasis. "Exactly. As I said, it was very inflammatory against Navy physicians, especially those sent into the field immediately after internship, a group which included Dr. Aachen. Young doctors are very sensitive about their abilities—and rightfully so. For many, including our missing lieutenant, their entire lives have been about becoming doctors and learning to heal patients. To have someone on the outside, someone who did not go through the hellish experience that seems to define American medical schools, tell them that they failed at that, is tantamount to a personal attack—it is as to be told that their lives had no meaning at all, which would not be easy for anybody to take."

"No," Gibbs said, beginning to see what Ducky was saying.

"Which goes back to my question of him having a way with words. To start with that being Dr. Aachen's first impression of him, as someone who does not know what she had gone through but judges her about it anyway, to end up married… Well, let it suffice that I would not want to be in a formal debate against Mr. Kirkan."

Gibbs smiled slightly. "He was a quiet kid," he began, recognizing Ducky's not-so-subtle attempts at information. He _was_ just a kid, too—twenty years old, his dark hair shorn into the standard high-and-tight, still standing stiffly at attention, fresh from scout sniper training. "Didn't talk much, at least not to me. Spent all of his time with his shooter. Two of them did everything together. One didn't go to the latrine without the other close behind." Corporal Lindholm and Lance Corporal—later Corporal—Kirkan couldn't be more different; Kirkan was young and quiet, dark-haired with dark eyes, respectful of superiors to the point of being almost nervous in their presence. Lindholm was blond, fair, and freckled, a few years older, three and a half years of college under his belt before he had gotten bored or frustrated with the entire process. Those extra years being on his own had made him more knowledgeable of the way the world worked than his younger spotter, having recognized boot camp and sniper training for the mental games that they were. He was loud and talkative, amusing everyone who surrounded him with his sarcastic humor and endless monologue—not unlike DiNozzo, now that Gibbs stopped to think about it. Like the rest of his men from Kuwait, Gibbs had no idea what had happened to Lindholm after he left that country. "Both were good shooters, but Kirkan was the brains. Could do those calculations in his head in seconds."

"Which was why he was the spotter."

Gibbs nodded. "Wouldn't have thought then that he'd become a writer."

"I do not think he did, either," Ducky pointed out, reminding Gibbs that Kirkan majored in physics when he went to college. "But life takes interesting turns sometimes." He didn't have to say what both were thinking: when Gibbs first met Kirkan, he never would have imagined that he would leave the Corps and join NIS, later NCIS. Or lose his wife and daughter in the process.

"Did you find anything useful, Duck?" Gibbs asked abruptly, having had enough of the trip down memory lane for one morning. Not taken aback by the sudden change in topic, or in Gibbs' tone, Ducky replaced the newspaper he had in his hands and picked up one of the novels in its place.

"Only that Mr. Kirkan loves his wife very much," he stated. "I have not yet had the opportunity to read any of his fictional work, but Timothy has read them in great detail and filled me in on the characters and story lines. Unlike our own Thom E. Gemcity, Gregory Aachen's novels do not fit into a series—each book stands on its own, at least to date, but there are definite patterns, at least in the characters. Twice—in his first novel, _Burn Away_, and then in the second, _Secret Lives of War_—the main character is either enlisted in the military or formally so, and is involved in a romantic relationship with an officer."

"Like Kirkan and Dr. Aachen."

"Yes. I would imagine that he was initially uncomfortable with this, at least subconsciously, if not consciously, and wrote it into his novels as a way to normalize it himself—if other enlisted men had fallen in love with female officers, it becomes acceptable for him to do the same." He paused briefly. "There are other recurring themes with other characters as well—a man with some sort of physical disability who always ends up with a very beautiful and often exotic woman, a woman very focused on her professional life and much less so with her personal life—but most noticeable are the descriptions of the lead characters' love interests. These women are always described as petite with blue eyes, and strong-willed with a sense of humor, which I believe would apply to Dr. Aachen as well."

"So he's writing his wife into his novels."

"Well, yes," Ducky replied, frowning slightly at the simplified explanation. "This is not a new writing technique by any means—just look at Timothy's novels." Gibbs smiled thinly at the medical examiner's words. "But fictionalized characters aside, I would like to direct your attention to the dedication pages of his novels." He opened _Burn Away_ to a page near the beginning and handed it over to Gibbs. "This was published shortly before their wedding and speaks of how he is looking forward to their life together." _Burn Away_ was replaced with _Secret Lives of War_ in Ducky's hands, and again it was opened to the dedication page. "His second novel was released exactly on their first wedding anniversary, which I believe was intentional. I don't know if you're familiar with traditional anniversary gifts—"

"Been married a couple of times, Duck," Gibbs interrupted.

"Ah, yes, but you never struck me as one who would stick to the historic pattern of how couples celebrate wedding anniversaries. The first is to be a gift of paper; or, in Kirkan's case, 415 sheets of paper." He handed it over to Gibbs, who again silently read the words there, dedicating the book to his wife in a rather romantic manner. He wondered for a second if any of his other former Marines from Kuwait knew who Gregory Aachen was and had read those words. If so, he was pretty sure they would still be teasing Kirkan mercilessly.

"The point, Duck?" he finally asked.

"I know you are exploring the terrorism angle to this, in light of Dr. Aachen's work in the detainee center, but I do not think that you should exclude other explanations for our young physician's abduction. It is no secret that Gregory Aachen's novels have been very successful, and anyone familiar with them could see how he felt for his wife."

Gibbs frowned slightly as he picked up Ducky's train of thought. "You think someone kidnapped Dr. Aachen to collect a ransom from Kirkan," he stated.

"I think you should not exclude the possibility," Ducky repeated. "It is not unbelievable that word would have spread about the identity of Dr. Aachen's husband and his occupation. We have both been in military camps at time of war, Jethro. You know that there are no secrets."

"And no end to the frustration of men putting their lives at risk on a daily basis with little reward," Gibbs added, catching on to what Ducky was saying. A couple of young enlisted soldiers, sailors, airmen, or Marines with more guts than common sense could conceivably think that holding an officer until her husband paid a handsome ransom wasn't outside the realm of possibility. "One problem, though, Duck," he continued. "Nobody's said a damned thing about a ransom."

"Ah," medical examiner said before shrugging slightly. "I did not say it was a perfect theory."

"We'll look into it," Gibbs promised. He gestured toward the autopsy table, filled with papers and books. "In the meantime, keep doing… whatever it is that you've been doing."


	13. Chapter 13

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 13**

_A/N: Yay! A day off! Let's celebrate together with a new chapter._

_But before we do that, your summary: the team seems to be no closer to finding Dr. Alyse Aachen, but not for a lack of trying. In addition to looking into the terrorism angle (which is currently on hold while the SecNav and State Department debate whether or not they should agree to working with Mossad), Gibbs has also gotten the NCIS Intelligence Department to prepare a dossier on Peter Kirkan and Ducky to do a 'psychological autopsy' on Kirkan and Aachen. _

* * *

"Coffee?" Tony asked as he slowed at the gate at the Navy Yard, offering the guard his ID and Ziva's, the first word spoken since they left his apartment.

"Hmm?"

"That dark beverage, tastes a little bitter, better with sugar? The stuff Gibbs mainlines?"

"I know what it is, Tony."

"Do you want to get some coffee before going into work?" he asked with exaggerated slowness. He glanced at her as he handed over her ID, seeing a knowing smile on her face. He rolled his eyes at being made to spell it out for her.

"I would like that," she said, her politeness just as exaggerated as his tempo had been. He rolled his eyes again, but when her hand lightly grazed his thigh, he removed his from the gear shift and squeezed her fingers briefly.

They parked in the NCIS garage and walked the block and a half to Gibbs' usual caffeine dealer, where Ziva ordered a large black coffee and Tony got a soy latte with nutmeg. Ziva rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything about his girlie coffee as they headed back to the building.

"Maybe if we get out at a reasonable time today, you can make that dinner you were going to make for me yesterday," Ziva said casually as they rode the elevator up to the squadroom. He caught the mischievous glint in her eye and barely resisted the urge to groan at what he knew was coming. Sure enough, she turned in the elevator so she was fully facing him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, but not actually touching. When she spoke again, her voice was low and sultry. "And I will provide dessert." A second later, the elevator doors slid open, and Ziva stepped out calmly, leaving a flustered DiNozzo in her wake.

"Damn you, woman," he muttered to himself as he followed behind her, taking a seat at his desk. He hated it when she did that—one innocent-seeming comment, and it took all of his willpower not to take her to one of several isolated places in the building and have his way with her. It was something he had put a lot of thought into, and he had an entire list of potential locations. The showers, that empty broom closet on the third floor, the locker rooms off the gym, the—.

"Agent DiNozzo, Officer David." DiNozzo's head snapped up at the sudden intrusion of Cynthia's voice into his thoughts. The director's secretary was standing at the top of the stairs, her hands at her hips. "There's a call in MTAC for you. From the Bahrain field office."

"We will be right there," Ziva called up. She gave Tony a knowing smile. "Are you ready?" she asked, almost teasingly. He glared briefly as he rose to follow her up the stairs. "No drinks in MTAC," she reminded him before he rounded the desk. He gave a mournful sigh as he replaced the latte on his desk, knowing that he was just going to throw it out when he returned.

"Of all the ridiculous rules," he muttered at the top of the stairs, more to himself than to her. She smiled knowingly before leaning in for the retina scan.

"Bahrain is on stand-by," the tech informed them as they entered to see the rainbow-striped screen. DiNozzo nodded as he reached for a headset and watched as Ziva did the same.

"We're ready," he said a minute later. The tech nodded and pressed a few buttons. DiNozzo blinked at the image that appeared. "Tomblin," he said in surprise. "Wasn't expecting to see you."

The petite second-in-charge in the Bahrain field office grinned widely. "I'll try not to take that personally, DiNozzo," she teased. Her eyes traveled over to Ziva and she nodded a greeting. "Good to see you again, Officer David."

"And same to you, Agent Tomblin," Ziva replied. As far as DiNozzo knew, the two women had never worked together; NCIS Special Agent Kim Tomblin filled in for Ziva on the MCRT almost two years before, after the Mossad liaison broke her ankle arresting Hedia Grossman, and left for Bahrain the same day Ziva came back from Israel after settling her father's estate. However, considering Ziva's occasional disappearances on Mossad duties over the last year or so, he couldn't say for sure that their paths hadn't crossed somewhere in the Middle East. "Is Agent Burley not available?"

Tomblin shook her head, her black ponytail swaying with the motion. "He left for Afghanistan as soon as we heard about Dr. Aachen. He's heading the investigation at Camp Phoenix and left me to take care of things on this end."

"And the Middle East as we know it falls apart," DiNozzo quipped. Tomblin rolled her eyes but played along.

"Because I'm sure you could do so much better," she said dryly. Ziva saw him stiffen slightly as the words hit far too close to his insecurities, but his playful grin didn't falter. "I read the official NCIS brief on Dr. Aachen's abduction," Tomblin informed them, instantly down to business. "What else have you got for me?"

As per agency protocol, suppositions weren't included in official briefs, only hard facts in short, clear language, so Tomblin's question was a valid one. "Dr. Aachen was the physician in charge of the detainee center at Camp Phoenix," DiNozzo began. "Gibbs spoke to Dr. Samuel Davis, an Army lieutenant colonel who held Dr. Aachen's post before redeployment. He didn't have much to offer—the detainee center is short-term, for medical care only. Any of the patients he saw would have been moved on to a more permanent location by now."

"I have a list of detainees," Tomblin informed them with a nod. "SecNav allowed for the release of information at what would have been some ungodly hour for you. Your intelligence department likely has the release as well, if you want to call for it while we continue the brief."

Tony nodded and gestured to one of the analysts in the back of the room to get that before speaking again. "Officer David and I spoke to a Mossad control officer in Afghanistan, and—"

"If it's all the same to you, DiNozzo, I'd like to hear this from Officer David," Tomblin interrupted with a nod in Ziva's direction. "No offense, but if there's one thing I've learned from having an in-house Mossad officer here in Bahrain, if you're talking Mossad, you might as well be talking _to_ Mossad while you do so."

Tony shrugged and turned to Ziva, who took over smoothly. "Officer Raanan Thal has three operatives in Afghanistan. A few weeks ago, one was captured by the American military. His name is Ezra Hardoon, but according to Officer Thal, he was likely captured under the name Kazem Shirazi."

Tomblin nodded slightly as she jotted that down. "Posing as an Iraqi?"

Ziva flinched imperceptivity at Tomblin's words, the fact that she had picked up on that so quickly, while it had completely escaped Tony's notice. Tomblin didn't have quite enough seniority in the agency to take Burley's place in a year, but Ziva wouldn't put it past Vance to overlook that detail, if it suited his needs. She made a mental note to work on the nuisances of Arabic names with Tony soon. "That is correct," she says to Tomblin evenly, nodding at the agent's words to cover up her reaction to them. "Does that make a difference?"

"It might, as far as where he's being held," Tomblin informed them. "I'll look into it. It shouldn't take too long to find him, then I'll send it up the chain to confirm that we're a go to proceed." Her voice had long ago lost that teasing edge, leaving only the non-nonsense, down-to-business tone that had probably been the only thing that had allowed the petite, youthful-appearing, half-Asian NCIS special agent to be successful as an MP captain in the Marine Corps. She paused, studying Ziva from several thousand miles away. "I trust Thal would like to be there when Hardoon is being debriefed?"

"I am sure that was her plan," Ziva agreed. Tomblin nodded slightly.

"I don't know her," she said bluntly, "and don't trust her. No offense intended."

Ziva nodded slightly; she wasn't offended. She understood where Tomblin was coming from. "It was never a stipulation that Thal do the debriefing alone or unsupervised. The interrogators at the camp where Hardoon is held will have the lead."

"And if Thal doesn't agree?"

"She will," Ziva replied, her voice final.

Tomblin stared at her for a minute before nodding slowly. "If Hardoon has intel, things are going to happen very quickly," she finally said, something both Tony and Ziva knew already. "Hopefully, this will be over before we know it."

"Yes," Ziva said. Both she and Tony turned at the sound of the door opening, allowing re-entrance of the analyst who went to get the list of detainees from the intelligence department. "The names from the detainee center have arrived."

"Great. Let's get started," Tomblin said, reaching for her own list. Tony frowned as he flipped through the few pages he had been handed.

"Is this just the list from Camp Phoenix?" he asked. Tomblin flinched and nodded.

"Unfortunately," she said dryly. She didn't look happy about that. "And it's only the ones who have been there since Dr. Aachen assumed the physician role in the detainee center. That's all State would release to us. They're sending a representative to us as we speak, to monitor the investigation and release information as he sees fit." She rolled her eyes. "I think that's why Stan left for Afghanistan, to be honest. State Department bureaucrats are _not_ his favorite people." She grinned at a sudden thought. "He spent five years training under Gibbs. His love of red tape is just one of Gibbs' more pleasant traits that he must have picked up in those years."

DiNozzo chuckled at that, even as he wondered exactly what traits _he_ had picked up—Burley had put in five years under Gibbs; DiNozzo had almost ten. More than once, people had compared him to his boss. Should he start looking for a house with a basement so he could get started on his boat? Maybe he should just start with the bourbon and go from there. He all but shook his head to clear it, to force his attention back on the conversation that had already begun between Ziva and Tomblin as they discussed the names and what they could mean for Dr. Aachen. With a sigh that only Ziva could hear, he focused on their words, knowing that, at any moment, they could find something that would break open the case that could determine the course of his career.

He just couldn't help the nagging feeling that it wouldn't be enough.


	14. Chapter 14

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 14**

_A/N: Previously in this fanfic... Ducky is working on psychological autopsies of both Peter Kirkan and Dr. Alyse Aachen, after Gibbs got an NCIS Intelligence Department dossier on Kirkan. Kirkan, meanwhile, has been going through his conversations with his wife, to try to figure out if there has been anything he missed. In the last chapter (which took place about 30 hours after Dr. Aachen's abduction), Tony and Ziva spoke with NCIS Special Agent Kim Tomblin, the senior field agent at the Bahrain field office, about the Camp Phoenix detainee center and the prospective deal with Mossad Officer Raanan Thal. They're dealing with a lot of government red tape, and DiNozzo is dealing with inadequacy issues confounded by Vance's mind games. _

_

* * *

_

Gibbs was at his desk when he saw DiNozzo and Ziva exit MTAC, and frowned slightly at the sight of his two agents. Seeing Ziva in and around MTAC was nothing new—as he pointed out to her on numerous occasions, she seemed to spend more time in there than at her desk—but his senior field agent was very rarely included in those conversations. He didn't bother to hide the fact that he was watching them, knowing that both were so engrossed in their conversation that they wouldn't notice. Ziva had the determined look on her face that she wore when a case was beginning to heat up and she could see the end in sight, but DiNozzo just looked tense.

Gibbs' eyes were still on them as Ziva touched her partner's arm, succeeding in getting his attention like nobody else could. Their conversation was obviously too quiet for him to hear, but whatever Ziva said, it made DiNozzo relax marginally, his eyes closing briefly as he reluctantly nodded. They opened and he offered her a smile that he gave no one else; a true smile, not the cheesy grin he wore to make everyone think he was a blathering idiot. His hand briefly drifted to her hip before they both straightened and looked away, their professionalism again intact.

He didn't envy their situation—to be in love in with someone and yet rarely allowed to show it—one bit.

Gibbs looked away as they began descending the stairs, their usual masks intact as they went, talking between themselves. As they got closer, their voices grew clearer, and Gibbs realized that something was just a little bit off.

They were speaking Arabic.

DiNozzo said something, stumbling slightly over the word, and Ziva chuckled as she corrected his pronunciation, turning back as she walked past her partner's desk to give him a teasing grin, and in that second, everything became clear—the Arabic, the call in MTAC, how DiNozzo seemed to know how detainees were kept and who was currently in charge of the Taliban around Kabul.

He just couldn't believe he hadn't seen in sooner.

"DiNozzo! My office, now!" he snapped, rising from his own desk to stalk toward the elevator, ignoring the bewildered expression on his senior field agent's face.

"Boss? It was just a—"

"Now, DiNozzo."

Gibbs waited until the elevator began moving before he hit the emergency stop. He still wasn't looking at the younger man when he asked, in an almost conversational tone, "Where are you on the director's short list?"

DiNozzo blinked once and paused as if considering his options: feign ignorance? Deny everything? Make a joke? He decided to go for door number one. "Boss?"

Gibbs' glare was enough to tell him that he knew better. "Not an idiot, DiNozzo," he snapped. "Burley's scheduled to leave Bahrain in about a year."

His senior field agent let out a long breath and looked away. "Yeah," he said softly before he smirked. "As far as the short list… I thought I was pretty damned close to the top. After all, I come with my own Mossad officer." The words stopped Gibbs in his tracks, before he found himself wondering, again, why he hadn't seen it sooner. Why the hell would DiNozzo leave DC, especially for the Middle East, without Ziva? As if knowing what his boss was thinking, DiNozzo first frowned, then smirked again. "What, Boss? You didn't honestly think I'd go to Bahrain and Ziva would stay here, did you?"

Deep down inside, yes, that was exactly what Gibbs thought. He was protective of his entire team; maybe a little bit too protective, but he always knew that there was no permanence to the situation. McGee was destined for other things, other positions that allowed him to use all facets of his training. Every time Gibbs saw something about an opening on an OSP team, he wondered if that would be the time that his junior agent moved on, on to a team with the newest technology and toys Gibbs didn't know existed and blanket permission to hack just about anything they could think to hack. Ducky would someday retire; Palmer would eventually decide to go back to medical school. Abby would probably stay at NCIS, but there was no guarantee to that. He always knew that Tony would someday take his own team, either by choice or by mandate from Vance.

His relationship with their Mossad liaison, on the other hand, was different than with other member of the team. It was nothing sexual—he'd have to be blind and probably dead not to notice how attractive she was, but he had never considered himself competition for DiNozzo in that department. No, this wasn't that. It was a relationship defined by mutual respect and mutual trust, by actions of protection and actions needing protection. Ziva shot her own brother to protect Gibbs and a team she barely know. Gibbs lied to her father and all of Mossad to cover that up. She came to his hospital room to remind him of who he was and what he was. He came back from Mexico to keep the Iranians from framing and killing her. When she didn't understand what was going on between her and Tony when they started 'dating', for lack of a better term, he was the one she came to. They understood each other in a way that nobody else did, and he had never conceived of the idea of her leaving.

It was silly and naïve, and he knew it.

"Why?" Gibbs finally asked, fully facing the other man.

"Why, or why now?" DiNozzo asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was leaning back against the elevator wall in a way that could look casual, but the underlying tension didn't escape Gibbs' notice. His boss didn't say anything in reply, just silently stared at the younger man, waiting for him to continue. He wasn't disappointed. "I'm ready for this, Boss. Hell, I've been ready for years. I cleaned up your mess during your Mexican vacation, did a pretty damned good job at it, too. Only had one conviction overturned for being blatantly wrong." He smiled thinly at that. "I've been offered my own team before." Gibbs frowned, searching his memory for when that happened. Seeming to know what he was thinking, DiNozzo explained, "Jenny offered me Rota. After you decided to come back and stay."

"Why didn't you take it?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "Wrong place. Wrong time. Things were getting started with Jeanne and starting to go well. And I wasn't ready yet."

"You ready now?"

"Yeah." His expression was almost challenging, but his posture hadn't changed. "I'm ready, Boss. You know I am." He _did_ know it; he had known it for years. He could see it in DiNozzo's unorthodox yet effective leadership skills, his ways of making people talk without them realizing that he was doing so, the way he refused to stop until he was satisfied. He could see it in the way the younger man reminded him of himself, the first time he was given a team.

"Why now?"

DiNozzo looked away for the first time, his eyes darting to the side of the silver box before returning to his boss' face. "There was no love lost between Ruthven and the late Director Eli David," he finally said. "I don't know if Director Ruthven honestly thinks that Ziva's job's useless or if he does this to torment her for whatever slight he thought her father committed against him, but all he's done in the last year and a half is play games with her mind. Every six months, he hedges about her future with NCIS and changes her responsibilities and makes vague comments about how much more valuable she'd be dodging bullets in Waziristan or some equally obscure place." He exhaled, running a hand over his face. "She's miserable," he said bluntly, "and she puts up with it because of me. It's the most goddamned selfish thing I've ever done, and it wasn't even my decision in the first place." He looked away again. "It's for her, Boss, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't for me, too." Green eyes locked onto blue ones, and when DiNozzo spoke again, his voice was hard, almost bitter. "Do you know how it felt to come into work and see all of my stuff piled onto my old desk and see _you_ sitting at the one that I had _just_ gotten used to thinking of as mine? Did you even _once_ consider that?" He could feel himself get angry, and knew it wasn't fair. It wasn't Gibbs he was mad at; he hadn't been then, and he wasn't now. His frustrations were with Director Ruthven and the games he was playing with Ziva, with Jenny and the games _she_ had played with _him_. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "It's time for this to happen, Gibbs. Whether you think so or not."

Gibbs stared at his senior field agent for another long moment before turning and restarting the elevator, pressing the button for the squad room. "Not disagreeing with you, DiNozzo." Again facing forward, he couldn't see the other man, but he knew him well enough to know that he was now wearing a big, dopey grin. He rolled his eyes slightly as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out.

Ziva was sitting at her desk when they re-entered the bullpen. She glanced up, a curious and slightly apprehensive expression on her face. "Hope you aren't done giving DiNozzo those Arabic lessons yet, David," Gibbs said dryly as he strode past her desk. Ziva's eyes widened slightly before they narrowed, her head snapping from her boss' back to her partner. Gibbs had just sat down when he saw his senior field agent give her a reassuring expression, which was met with a less apprehensive one of her own, followed by a wide grin, which DiNozzo replied with one of his own. The entire exchange could have been measured in seconds, and not a single word was spoken.

And despite how difficult their everyday life was, to have to balance a working relationship with a romantic one, Gibbs did envy them _that_—the silent communication, the ability to know another person well enough to know when no words needed to be spoken. It had been far too long since he had had that type of connection with another human being.


	15. Chapter 15

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 15**

_A/N: The last we saw of our favorite crime-fighting team, Gibbs found out the secret Tony and Ziva had been hiding for a year, that he was trying to get Vance to give him his own team so that they could relocate. Their first choice is the Bahrain field office, which is currently run by Special Agent Stan Burley, but Director Vance seems to think that DiNozzo would be a better fit at the Rota, Spain subordinate office, and it seems the only way to convince the director otherwise is to show him that DiNozzo knows his way around antiterrorism circles and can use that knowledge and those contacts to find Dr. Aachen. In this search, Tony and Ziva are now working with Special Agent Kim Tomblin to look into the detainees that Dr. Aachen had been treating in Afghanistan, while they're all still waiting for final approval to move forward to work with Mossad Officer Raanan Thal on freeing one of her operatives and seeing what intel he has. Peter Kirkan, Dr. Aachen's husband and one of Gibbs' former Marines, is looking into his past conversations with his wife to figure out if she had been leaving any clues that he had missed the first time around, and in efforts of being thorough in their investigation and looking into angles other than terrorism, Ducky is now doing 'psychologic autopsies' on Kirkan and Dr. Aachen._

* * *

When Peter Kirkan made his way blearily to the kitchen, he found Alyse already there, her eyes downcast as she concentrated on cutting a potato. "It's a watato, actually," she corrected with a grin, and he frowned, wondering how she had heard his thoughts and what the hell she was talking about.

"A watato?" he finally asked, deciding he hadn't had nearly enough sleep to try to figure out what the hell she talking about. Her grin widened.

"A watato," she repeated. "A Washington potato."

"I thought Idaho had potatoes," he asked, still trying to figure out where this conversation was going. "Washington has apples."

She pointed the knife at him, a mock scold on her face. "There is very little that you can't grow in Washington soil," she informed him before returning her attention to her potato. She picked up a small piece and popped it in her mouth, making him grimace slightly. Did she just seriously eat a piece of raw potato? "It's very climactically diverse, with a wide range of soil types. Potatoes, for example, grown around the Tri-Cities are an average of one inch longer than Idaho potatoes and weigh a couple of ounces more, due to extra water content. That's due to the differences in altitude, humidity, and temperature between the Columbia River valley and the largest potato-growing areas of Idaho."

"No, I can't tell your father is the Washington Farm Bureau president," he said dryly. She grinned again and popped another small piece of potato in her mouth. "Will you stop doing that? It's disgusting."

"No, it's not," she countered. "Doesn't really have a taste. Just a texture, and that's not too unlike an apple." She tossed the pieces of the potato into one of those Ziploc bag designed to steam food in the microwave, and grabbed a head of broccoli. "We used to take a short-cut through the field on our walk home," she said. "If the time of the year was right, we would dig up a potato, and Drew would cut it up with his pocketknife and we'd snack on it as we walked."

"I always knew there was something strange about your brother." She grinned at that. For the first time, he noticed how she was dressed—sports bra and running shorts, strands of hair from her ponytail stuck to her neck, looking flushed and sweaty and damned sexy. "Did you just get in from a run?" This time of year, she usually ran after work, instead of before. Of course, some of that depended on her rotation. He frowned, trying to remember what she was doing that month. For some reason, he kept thinking it had something to do with detainees, but that didn't make any sense. "And what are we having for breakfast?"

She made a face at him. "Yes, and I'm steaming a potato, broccoli, and cheese. I would have made a baked potato, but I'm too lazy to deal with the whole baking bit and burning my fingertips on the hot potato and everything. This tastes just the same, and it's so much easier."

"Odd breakfast, though."

"That's because it's dinner."

"But it's morning."

She laughed and shook her head slightly. "We're several time zones apart, remember?"

Realization suddenly dawned on him. "So this is a—"

"Dream," she confirmed. He frowned as the events of the last couple of days caught up with him at once.

"They're looking for you," he told her. She shrugged.

"Hope you're not expecting me to tell you where I am. It's_ your_ dream." She gave him a teasing look. "And I must say, I'm disappointed. Ellie gets to spend a year in the Philippines, and I don't even get a husband who can _dream_ me into a tropical location." She grinned before her expression became decidedly suggestive. She took a step closer to him, their bodies close but not actually touching. She placed a hand on his chest and quirked an eyebrow playfully. "There better at least be sex in this dream. We have been apart for far too long, and, well," her voice dropped an octave or so, "I miss you."

---

Kirkan woke with a start, his body shooting upright in his desk chair, where he had fallen asleep watching the recordings of his conversations with Alyse until the early hours of the morning. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch, grimacing when he realized that he had been asleep for two hours. In the back of his mind, he could hear Allie lecturing him about the effects of sleep deprivation, and wondered if that dream was a sign that he was becoming delirious.

He shook the thought away. It was a dream; that was all.

He turned his attention back to his computer screen, where the photo screensaver was running, a picture of Alyse on the screen, dressed in the digital camouflage uniform that would have appeared to belong to a Marine, if not for the 'US Navy' tape over her left chest. She was wearing a Kevlar helmet but no body armor, and from the buildings in the background, he knew she was just playing around outside the base armory, not actually preparing to go outside the wire. In her hands was an almost-comically large weapon, her Oakley sunglasses slipped down low enough to show her bright blue eyes, her expression an odd combination of amused and seductive. He had laughed when she had emailed him the picture shortly after she arrived in Afghanistan, and made some comment in return in about how doctors should just stick to their clinics and hospitals, because they didn't even seem to know how a weapon should be held.

At the time, he hadn't even thought about what it represented: the fact that she was in a place that required that she have _someone_ around her who _did_ know how to use those weapons to keep her and the rest of the base safe.

He angrily shoved the mouse away, ending the screen saver and bringing up the image of the video player, now just a black square in the middle of his computer screen after it had turned itself off sometime after he fell asleep in his chair. He had almost made it through another week worth of calls before that had happened, their condo filled with the sound of Alyse's voice as she told funny stories about the things her corpsmen had been doing.

Based on the light tone of most of her conversations, one would think that she was practicing medicine in some sleepy suburb, not in the middle of a warzone.

He shook his head quickly, abruptly standing. Sitting around in the chair, feeling sorry for himself as he thought about how well his wife hid the true nature of her work from him for months wasn't going to be doing any good to get her back. Despite the fact that he knew on an intellectual level that his presence wasn't going to help the investigation, and might actually hinder it, he rose from his chair and made his way toward the bathroom, to shower and get dressed to head back to NCIS.

---

Dr. Donald Mallard surveyed the pile of papers he had surrounded himself with and sighed, wondering, not for the first time, what business a medical examiner had doing psychological analyses—his so-call 'psychological autopsies'—on personnel files, newspaper articles, and novels.

His head was swimming with seemingly-unconnected facts: graduation dates, character profiles, officer evaluation reports, plotlines involving sergeants and female doctors and recent West Point graduates injured in battle and unexpectedly falling in love with beautiful women who doesn't care about his scars, an Honorable Discharge from the Marine Corps, nomination forms for medals, medical records—.

_Medical records_.

His mind stopped at those two words, and a slow smile appeared on his face. Of course. Medical records. He looked at the medical records of his patients every day; why should this one be any different, just because he didn't have a body in front of him?

He made his way to the computer and logged into the DoD's medical record system, typing in Lt. Alyse Aachen's social security number and easily finding her record. He skimmed through her past appointments quickly, finding nothing unexpected—routine medical examinations, a couple of visits to the orthopedic clinic for metatarsal fractures from running, her pre-deployment physical.

It was when he got to the medication list that things started to look…not right. His eyes widened as he realized the implications of what he was looking at, and he made his way quickly to the elevator.

"Jethro," Ducky called out as he stepped into the squad room. "I think I've found something you might want to see." He waved the printed piece of paper in his hand. "I believe our young Dr. Aachen was depressed and didn't want the Navy to know," he said. "Several years ago, she had multiple prescriptions for Provigil, a neuroleptic medication often used for narcolepsy or fatigue. She also has standing prescriptions for amitriptyline, an antidepressant, but no two prescriptions are ever written for by the same physician. In fact, this most recent prescription, for a fifteen-month supply of the medication prior to her deployment, was from an Army surgeon."

"She's not depressed." Ducky raised his eyebrows and turned to acknowledge Peter Kirkan's flat tone; in his haste to share this information with Gibbs, he hadn't noticed the writer's presence. "I doubt Alyse has been depressed for a single day of her life. They used the Provigil to stay alert while on-call during internship. She told me about that. The interns at Bethesda used to write it for each other until they were caught and told that they had to stop. She said it wasn't illegal—they were all doctors—but that their chief resident told them it was a bad idea, to write prescriptions without medical examinations. And the amitriptyline is for her headaches, not depression. She's been taking it every night since before we met, since she was in medical school. She says without it, the headaches are so intolerable she can barely move." He glanced over at Gibbs before returning his attention to the medical examiner. "It's a genetic thing, or something. Her brother has the same thing. That's why he was medically discharged from the Corps. You can't fly a billion dollar fighter jet when you get headaches so bad that your vision blurs if you turn your head. As far as having different people write the prescriptions, she just didn't see the point in going to see a doctor just to get a medication she's been taking since she was twenty-three, especially when all of her friends are doctors. That last prescription, the one before she was deployed, was probably written by Dr. Jayashri Ting after our last dinner at Olazzo before Alyse left for Afghanistan. Jess was heading back to work after dinner, so Allie asked her to put the prescription into the computer when she got there." He frowned. "If you thought Alyse arranged this whole thing because she was depressed or bored or suicidal, you couldn't be further from the truth. Don't pretend you know her because you know what drugs she takes and who prescribes them. Is that all you found, or do you have anything that will actually help us figure out who the hell is holding my wife?"

---

The man washed the petite physician with a worried expression on his face, seeing her curled up on the cot with her head in her hands. The vomiting had started only a few hours after they had brought her back to that room. She had glared at them and told them that it was because of her headaches, that she had medicine back in her hut that she needed to take; without it, the pain was so bad that even the slightest movement would leaving her throwing up.

Well, she hadn't been lying about _that_.

"She's really sick," he murmured as his friend stepped up next to him, both watching the doctor as she tried to lie as quietly as possible. "We have to do something."

"It's just a headache," his friend countered. "It's not going to kill her."

"I need fluids." They both startled at the sudden voice. Dr. Aachen hadn't moved, still curled up on the cot, but it was undeniably her voice. "And not just water. Intractable vomiting in the desert means I'm going to be dehydrated very quickly, with a hypochloremic metabolic alkalosis that can lead to changes in respiration, depression of central chemoreceptors, and loss of consciousness." There was a pause, followed by a low groan, before she continued. "I need IV fluids, preferably a several liter bolus of normal saline followed by maintenance fluids of D5 half-normal saline. Maintenance normal saline is the second best. If you can't get that… Gatorade is better than water. Please…something."

The two men looked at each other. "Did you understand any of that?" the second asked to the first. He shook his head.

"Not really."

"Me, either." They turned and left the room, leaving Dr. Aachen to the pain she knew she wouldn't find escape from.


	16. Chapter 16

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 16**

_A/N: I am absolutely exhausted from an incredibly rough night on call, which means that posting today probably isn't my best idea ever, but these things happen (just remember that any errors you might find are a result from sleep deprivation). In the last few chapters, we discovered that Ducky is looking into the backgrounds of Peter Kirkan and Dr. Alyse Aachen, and discovered that Dr. Aachen is on medication for severe headaches. We also discovered that she is still alive and being held, but without her headache medicine. And that Kirkan is dealing with sleep deprivation issues of his own. As far as our usual team, Tony and Ziva have spoken to Special Agent Kim Tomblin about working with Mossad to gather intel about the abduction, which allowed Gibbs to put the pieces together and realize that DiNozzo has been trying to get his own team so he and Ziva could move away, for the sake of Ziva's career. _

_

* * *

_

NCIS Special Agent Kim Tomblin tapped her pen against her knee absently as she studied the list of names released from the State Department, comparing it to the 'Dummies Guide to the Taliban'—the official Department of Defense report, updated monthly—open on her computer. Well, technically, it was Stan Burley's computer, sitting on top of the Special Agent in Charge's desk, but his chair was much more comfortable than hers and had a better view of the office, so she was using it in his absence. She figured he wouldn't mind too much.

She sighed as she drew a line through another name, marking another one of the detainees briefly held in the medical facility at Camp Phoenix as 'confirmed dead'. She wondered if the State Department was being this difficult on purpose, giving her a list of names that included those who had died from their injuries while at the hospital. If so, they had succeeded. She was getting so frustrated with the process that she was tempted to just forget the idea, toss the whole list in the shredder, and return to the cases she had been working on before DiNozzo's brief crossed her desk. She was a crime scene investigator, dammit, not a paper-pusher. She didn't like making lists and checking them twice. She just hoped Stan was having more luck in Afghanistan than she was having in Bahrain.

"Kim?" She glanced up at the sound of Special Agent Todd Freiler's voice, the junior field agent assigned to the Bahrain office. "State's here."

"Oh, goody," she said dryly, leaning back in the chair with a heavy sigh. As if she didn't have enough to deal with, being left in charge of the office with only Freiler and the groups of analysts and intelligence officers to help out while Stan played cowboy in Afghanistan. She leaned forward to release her ponytail, shaking her hair out slightly before pulling it back again. It was something she did absently when filled with nervous anticipation, and Stan teased her about it incessantly. He often asked what she did back when she was in the Corps and wore her hair tightly braided every day. She often came up with a clever answer, but to be honest, she couldn't remember. Sometimes she wondered if she did anything at all. Despite having completed two deployments in five years, her old career seemed much less stressful than her current one. At least when she was an MP officer, she didn't have to deal with the State Department.

She took another deep breath to steel herself as she pushed the chair back from the desk and rose to exit the large office she shared with the other two field agents on the team. To her surprise, Freiler began to follow, instead of take a seat at his desk as he expected. "You coming to watch?" she asked dryly. He grinned.

"It's not everyday I get to watch a train wreck happen in front of my eyes," he said, sounding almost gleeful. "I can't wait to see you treat State's stuffed shirt."

She gave him a brief glare. "Do you _want_ to get permanently assigned to the Baghdad subordinate office?" she asked.

"You don't have that kind of power," he replied, but she thought she detected a touch of fear that she just might. She returned that with an almost malicious smile.

"But Stan does," she informed him. "And I'm his favorite." Freiler didn't have anything to say to that as she smirked and headed toward the building lobby.

It wasn't hard to identify the 'stuffed shirt' from the State Department; most NCIS employees at the Bahrain field office were fairly low-key and dressed as such—Tomblin's light khakis and fitted tee-shirt was just about par for office professionalism. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked as she approached. He turned toward her and frowned.

"I highly doubt that," he said stiffly. She got the impression that he was just as happy to be there she was to have him there. "I need to speak with the Special Agent in Charge."

She barely resisted the urge to turn and glare at Freiler's barely concealed snort of laughter. "Actually, sir, for the moment, that would be me. Special Agent Kim Tomblin. It's nice to meet you." She offered her hand, lowering slowly when the only response she got was a disbelieving and rather discomfited look. "And you are?"

"Moser Bedford," he replied. "State."

"Yes, we were told you were coming," she said, trying to be patient and failing miserably. "Listen, there's a lot that needs to happen, so—"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, "but if this is some sort of joke—I really need to speak to the senior agent."

She stiffened, drawing herself up to her full five feet nothing, wishing she was wearing her heeled boots instead of her customary brown tennis shoes; as if that would make a difference when standing next to a man easily ten inches taller than her. "The SAC is Special Agent Stan Burley," she said slowly. "He's in Afghanistan right now, interviewing the base MPs and the detainees—"

"We did _not_ give anyone permission to engage the detainees," Bedford interrupted loudly. They were beginning to get some curious looks, causing Tomblin to loose what little patience and restraint she had left.

"Let's take this into our office," she said forcefully, heading back to the field agent division without waiting for a response. There was a bit of hesitation, but then she heard Bedford and Freiler following. She glared at Freiler, making his ears pink significantly as he reluctantly sat at his desk. She, in turned, remained standing, leaning against Stan's desk, her arms crossed over her chest. She stared at Bedford unflinchingly, and for a second, she remembered what it was like to be a twenty-five-year-old Marine captain glaring down a room full of Iraqi police recruits, forcing them to pay attention to what she had to say. "A Navy physician was abducted from her office," she finally said, her voice careful and measured. "We got permission from SecNav to investigate that to the fullest extent, and that meant that Special Agent Burley had to fly up to Kabul to assess the situation on the ground. I'm sorry if you don't approve of the situation, but that's what it is, and while he's there, I'm in charge down here, and you get to work with me."

Bedford flushed at the take-charge tone in her voice, and she got the impression that he was exactly as she pegged him as soon as she found out he was coming: some mid-level Middle East 'expert' who thought he would finally get the chance to exert some power, for once in his undistinguished career. "I was hoping to deal with someone with more…experience."

Freiler choked back his laughter as a cough, and even Tomblin had to smile slightly at that. She was quite accustomed to being underestimated at first glance—she knew she looked young, and at five feet tall and a hundred pounds dripping wet in full uniform with combat boots, she didn't exactly project an image of physical superiority. "Sir," she said, purposely annunciating the honorific, "I have a bachelor's degree in forensic science and a master's in Arabic studies and speak the language fluently, spent five years as an officer in the Marine Corps, was deployed to Iraq twice, and have been with NCIS for almost five years, the last eighteen months as the senior field agent under Agent Burley here in this office. If you can find someone with more experience to work with, be my guest. You'll be doing me a favor." She waited a beat. "If you can't, I would like the location of a Mossad operative being held under the name Kazem Shirazi. And I'll even say please."

The middle-aged man and younger woman locked in a silent battle of the wills, each thinking that the other would break first. As it turned out, it was neither. "Actually, Kim, you don't need Mr. Bedford's help for that," Agent Freiler said from his desk. He glanced up to see his senior field agent staring at him expectantly. He turned the computer monitor toward her, even though he knew she probably wouldn't be able to read it from where she was standing. "I found him."


	17. Chapter 17

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 17**

_A/N: We have what is known as "the intern game": since the intern's job seems to be primarily to discharge patients, winning the intern game means that you have discharged all of the patients on the team. Well, I won the game yesterday, so I earned myself an extra day off, and I'm choosing to celebrate by posting another chapter (as I'm going to be spending a good chunk of time today writing)._

_As far as the story: We just dropped in on Special Agent Kim Tomblin, at the Bahrain field office. While Special Agent Stan Burley, the Special Agent in Charge in Bahrain, was in Afghanistan to lead the investigation at Camp Phoenix, she stayed behind to coordinate things with Tony and Ziva and the State Department. Things with State got off to a rocky start, but she was still able to find the location of Ezra Hardoon, known to the Americans as Kazem Shirazi. Back in DC, Ducky and Gibbs are looking into the backgrounds of Dr. Aachen and Peter Kirkan while Tony and Ziva continue to work the detainee/terrorism angle. Thanks to DiNozzo's newly-discovered competence on anti-terrorism matters, Gibbs was able to figure out that those two have been working on convincing Vance to give Tony his own team, and gave his blessing, in a very Gibbs-like manner._

* * *

Ezra Hardoon was instantly alert at the sound of the morning bell, and barely suppressed a groan at the sound. Four years in the IDF—including an amount of time that couldn't be disclosed in _Sayeret Matkal_—following by Mossad training and almost a year in the field, and he was still far from being a morning person. If he had his way, operations would be run from 1400 to 0400, followed by a nice long run, and going to bed around dawn—not the other way around.

He rose from the bed—the Americans provided them with bunkbeds, an amazing luxury, considering that many of the men they had captured had never slept on anything more comfortable than a mat on a dirt floor—and headed over to the sink, where the men were beginning to gather to wash their faces, the first step of _wudu_, the ritual cleaning before prayers. Prior to this assignment, he thought the rituals of Judaism were over-the-top. Of course, the largest difference could be that he didn't usually follow the rituals of the culture he was born into, whereas this current assignment dictated that he appear to be everything he was raised to despise: a radical Muslim.

He had just pulled the knit white _taqiyah_ over his head—the one issued by the Americans, as he had been captured without one, and they didn't want to be accused of violating his religious freedoms—when one of the US Marine MPs stepped into the detainee's area. "Kazem Shirazi?" he asked, sounding uncertain. Hardoon quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"You are not to interfere with _Fajr_," he said mildly, holding out his Quran—also issued by the Americans upon capture—as emphasis.

"Uh," the Marine stammered. "Sorry, sir." He bowed his head respectfully and stepped out, earning a subtle smirk from the Mossad operative. If he was going to be held in an American prison for doing his job, he was at least going to enjoy himself whenever he could while doing so.

When he returned from his dawn prayers, he found that same Marine MP standing by the door, this time accompanied by a powerfully-built black man in the digital camouflage of the US Army, the Velcro spaces and pockets free of any patches or other identifying marks. He kept his expression carefully neutral even as he felt a surge of adrenaline and fear coursing through his bloodstream. He knew from his own time in special operations in the military, as well as his career in Mossad, that a 'sterilized uniform' - one that didn't leave anything that could be used to identify the wearer - rarely meant good things for the enemy. "Mr. Shirazi," the new man said forcefully. "If you're done with your prayers, we'd like you to come with us."

"Of course," he said politely, focusing on keeping his accent appropriate in the setting of his fear. "May I return my Quran?"

He thought he detected a knowing smirk in the eyes of the man he presumed was an interrogator, but he gestured for Hardoon to do so. He kept his motions even, his posture giving nothing away as he returned the Quran to its place among his belongings, even as he fought to keep from running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

He was led down a darkened hallway, the Marine MP and the 'Army' interrogator flanking him on either side, into an equally darkened 'interview' room. They sat him down in a chair on one side of the non-descript flaking wood table before shackling his ankles and wrists. The MP left the room; the 'soldier' remained standing, leaning against the wall in the corner, watching Hardoon with a look of eager anticipation.

He didn't know how long he was sitting silently at that table before the door opened again, this time revealing a blond man in his late thirties or early forties, wearing a sterilized uniform of a US Marine. Hardoon almost did a double-take at the next person walking through the door. Upon seeing the tall and lean woman, also in a sterilized uniform of a US Marine, his first thought was to wonder why Mossad was interrogating prisoners side-by-side with the Americans. His next thought was to wonder if he had been drugged, because he was surely seeing things. There was no other explanation for the sudden appearance of Raanan Thal in his interrogation room.

But then she turned to face him, a smile hidden in her large chocolate-brown eyes, and he refused to believe that she wasn't really there. He didn't care if she was a delusion or not; at that moment, he needed her there, needed to see that smile cross her soft features, needed the reminder of her light touch, of her skin against his, of his fingers tangled in that long, thick straight dark hair. And then the man in the Army uniform spoke again, bringing Hardoon out of his memories of one stolen night in Baghdad and back to that dark concrete cell in Afghanistan. "This him?" The words were directed at Thal, and Hardoon felt heart jump in his chest. It was over. The nightmare of the last several weeks, being held in American detainee centers, being mixed up with Shiites and Sunnis alike, being forced to face Mecca and offer his prayers five times daily, was over. After believing it would never end, that he would be there for the rest of his life, it truly was over.

He caught the amused glint in Thal's eyes as she made a show of sweeping her eyes over Hardoon's form. She stepped closer to him, invading his personal space, standing close enough he could feel her there through her borrowed uniform and his white jumpsuit. She removed the prayer cap from his head and slowly rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, her fingers burning trails over the roadmap of scars that could be found there before moving to his face, and her amusement grew as she took in the shaggy beard and unruly dark hair, so different than eight months before, the last time they stood face-to-face, when he was still as clean-cut as he had been during his days in the IDF. "This is him," she finally declared, the smile expanding to take over her whole face. "Ezra Hardoon. He is one of my operatives."

He closed his eyes at her words, taking in a deep breath of relief that he hadn't realized he would feel. He had experienced much worse than a couple of American detainee centers in his time in special ops and Mossad, but it wasn't the conditions that had bothered him; it was the loss of freedom, the inability to plan for his future, that had almost done him in. He muttered a short prayer to himself before speaking to her. "_You found me_," he finally said in Hebrew as he opened his eyes, meeting hers from where they were still fixed on him.

"_Did you doubt that I would?_" she replied in the same language.

"_Never_," he replied honestly, beginning to feel himself smile.

The 'soldier' cleared his throat. "English, please," he said dryly. He stepped behind Hardoon and freed the Mossad operative from his shackles. Hardoon rolled his wrists as he chuckled slightly.

"I apologize, sir," he said, again speaking in English, this time with his natural voice and in his usual accent, which sounded almost strange to his ears. "For almost a year, I have spoken only Arabic, Dari, and broken English. It has been too long since I have spoken my native language."

The 'soldier' smiled slightly at that, pulling up a chair to the table and turning it backwards before sitting down. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you and Officer Thal will be back in Tel Aviv, completely surrounded by people speaking Hebrew." Hardoon knew his surprise must have shown on his face when the man smiled slightly. "What did you _think_ would happen, Hardoon? How are you supposed to go from being captured by the Americans to back working for the Taliban?"

"Something I had not yet figured out," Hardoon admitted.

"Well, if you think of something, let us know," he replied with a slight smile. "In the meantime, it's nice to meet you. You've had a lot of important people searching for you. I'm just glad we found you. I'm Ellis Pride, CIA. This is Special Agent Stan Burley, NCIS." Hardoon shook each man's hand, still slightly in a daze, not quite believing this was happening.

"NCIS?" he echoed, focusing on the man with the Marine uniform lacking any identifying marks, before his eyes went to Thal. "There is a Mossad liaison to NCIS."

"Yes," Burley replied with a nod. "Ziva David. She had been working with Officer Thal on your release." Hardoon frowned as his eyes traveled to Raanan. Seeking out anybody's help was unlike her, and he could tell by the set of her jaw that it wasn't quite her idea.

"I do not understand," he said. "Why would my capture have gotten the attention of the Americans? One Mossad officer, operating without the protection of his government, is not something that the United States government would typically care about."

"Is that why you've been held for a month without a single word to any of your interrogators about who you really work for?" That was Pride who had spoken, and Hardoon turned to him and nodded gravely.

"You would not have believed me," he said, and Pride knew he was right. Especially in his current state, unshaven and unkempt, looking much more like an Iraqi living and working in Afghanistan than a highly-trained Israeli soldier and spy. And with his parents' history—born and raised in Iraq, immigrating to Israel as religious refugees less than a year before Hardoon's birth—the operative had done a very good job looking and acting the part.

"You're right," the CIA interrogator replied, nodding slightly. He slid a water bottle across the table to Hardoon, which the Mossad operative gratefully accepted. "No offense, but the Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of the State couldn't care less about one foreign agent operating in a war zone. What they do care about is finding a Navy physician abducted from Camp Phoenix two days ago."

Hardoon blinked before his eyes traveled over to Thal. Her expression was as blank as a Mossad control officer's should be, but he could see the expectant look in her eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. "I am sorry," he said truthfully. "I never went through Camp Phoenix. I have never been anywhere near Kabul. My activities have mostly been in the western part of Afghanistan. I do not recall talking to any other detainees who been through Camp Phoenix, either."

Pride leaned forward over the table. "You haven't heard anybody talking about Dr. Alyse Aachen, or any military physician in general?" Hardoon shook his head again.

"I am sorry," he repeated. He began to sincerely hope that his freedom wasn't dependent on knowing something about this Dr. Aachen. "I had not heard anything that fits that description." He saw Agent Burley hang his head slightly, and even Raanan closed her eyes briefly. "However," he continued, "I had operated in Taliban camps for almost six months and have been in the detainee system for a month. I do know other information that you might find important."

"By all means, Mr. Hardoon, please continue," Pride said dryly. He nodded and took a sip of the bottled water.

"There is a man," he began. He had been trained to start with the most useless information and gradually go up from there, with the hopes that the interrogators would either bore with the minor information or determine that he could be trusted before giving away any big secrets, but this time, he started with the biggest thing he had. He figured he owed it to these men, willing to deal with two foreign intelligence agents and involve their Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of State, to free him. He didn't know what the deal was with this doctor or why she was so important, but someone with that much pull deserved the best information he had. "He is Ukrainian, or maybe Belarusian—I had heard conflicting reports on his nationality—but he is known in social circles in Western Europe and the United States. He is a very rich man, his wealth accumulated by multiple nepharious means—arms dealing, drug dealing, people dealing—and he spreads it among equally nepharious 'charities'. He is rumored to be financing a number of Taliban cells in the Kabul area. He may be behind this abduction, or know something about who is."

"Even if he's not directly responsible, he sounds like someone we might want to talk to," Pride said, his tone still dry. "Does he have a name?"

"A code name, and a name," Hardoon replied with a nod. "He is known in Afghanistan as _Shahryar_. It means 'friend'. For most people, that is the only name they know."

"But you know his real name?"

Hardoon smiled thinly. "There are advantages to being a highly-trained Iraqi amidst one of the most powerful Taliban cells in the area," he said, his tone dry and slightly self-depreciating. He caught the amused gleam in Raanan's eyes and couldn't help but smile. He knew why other intelligence agencies preferred not to deal with Mossad on a regular basis; they were trained not to trust anyone, and rarely shared information easily, but even more than that, they used methods that gave even the most maverick of American intelligence operatives pause. Kazem Shirazi had been a real Iraqi citizen, an American-trained member of the Iraqi police force who had been secretly communicating with his counterparts on the Afghani front before Hardoon got to him. It was, after all, easier to assume someone else's identity and reputation than to create one from scratch. The scorched body amidst the taxi car bomb that had 'prematurely detonated' without harming any of its 'intended targets' had been the perfect way of getting rid of the evidence of the real Shirazi. "I was trusted by groups that your American spies try for years to infiltrate. _Shahryar_'s real name is Niko Zajac, and as of the information I heard over the midday meal a week ago, he decided to spend some time in one his summer estates a little bit early this year, at the request of his eldest son." He smiled thinly. "Damir is fifteen and is just beginning to realize the social status he can have of as a result of his father's money. I am not personally familiar with American society locations, but I have heard of this place, the Hamptons. I believe that where _Shahryar_ and his family are for the next few weeks." He drained the last of the water bottle before recapping in carefully. "I have other information on other matters and am more than happy to share it, but first, I was wondering if it would be possible to shave. I have not done so in eight months, and in the interest of all of this sharing, this beard itches a great deal."


	18. Chapter 18

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 18**

_A/N: Previously in this NCIS story: Dr. Alyse Aachen is still missing (wouldn't be much of a story anymore if she weren't...). Despite the State Department's best intentions at slowing NCIS' investigation, they located Ezra Hardoon, a Mossad undercover operative captured by the American military in Afghanistan a few weeks before Dr. Aachen's abduction. He, unfortunately, didn't know anything about who might be holding Dr. Aachen, but he did know the name of someone who might. As far as the rest of the team (whom we have, admittedly, not seen much of lately): Abby analyzed Kirkan's video of the abduction, but didn't get anything. As there isn't any other forensics in the case, she must currently be working on something for another team. Ducky has been working on 'psychological autopsies' on both Kirkan and Aachen, but hasn't come up with much, with the exception of the fact that Dr. Aachen takes medication for chronic headaches and that Kirkan dedicates his novels to his wife, as well as bases characters after her. Tony and Ziva have been working with contacts in Mossad and throughout the Middle East, a fact that didn't escape Gibbs' attention; he now knows that DiNozzo has been trying to get his own team, as Ziva's director has been threatening to pull her from DC._

* * *

A sudden change in his surroundings caused Tony DiNozzo to awaken suddenly. He did a quick inventory of his environment: the mattress was a bit softer than his, the pillow a bit more firm, the only covers a thick down comforter. Ziva's bed; Ziva's apartment. He grinned as the events of the previous evening came back to him in a rush. They stopped by the grocery store to get what he needed to make his sausage and peppers pasta, opened up a bottle of red wine while he cooked, and then there was dinner, and just as Ziva promised him in the elevator, there was 'dessert' before they both fell into an exhausted slumber in her queen-sized bed.

And that was what made him realize what it was that woke him up in the first place: it was quiet. Too quiet. There were no ear-splitting snores that used to make him think he was sleeping with a lumberjack with emphysema instead of a young and beautiful—and deadly—Israeli woman. "Ziva?" he murmured, turning over in bed to face her. She was sleeping on her stomach, her shoulders bare above the comforter, her face turned toward him. Her eyes were still closed, but instead of her usual slack-jawed expression she—and just about everyone else in the world—wore while sleeping, she had a look on her face that was part terror and part agony, and instead of her usual snoring, a sound that would have been described as 'whimpering', had it been coming from anyone other than a trained Mossad assassin, could be heard.

A nightmare.

The things she had seen and done in the course of her life would give anyone nightmares, and this was hardly the first she had had in the last two years, since Tony had begun sleeping with her more often than without her, although they had been coming much less frequently. The first few times it happened, he hadn't known what to do, but even he was capable of catching on after two years.

Knowing how light of a sleeper she was, and knowing that the hand under her pillow was gripping a gun, and not knowing what was going on in her dream, he knew he had to be careful with how he woke her. He lightly brushed her hair back, exposing her face and neck, and leaned over to gently press his lips to the space where her jaw met her neck, right below her ear. She murmured something in a language he didn't understand—Russian?—but didn't stir. "Ziva," he whispered into her ear, keeping his voice light. "Calm down. I'll protect you from the bad guys." She murmured again and tried to turn away, but he held her in place. "Oh, come on," he scoffed as he leaned down to kiss her again, this time on the lips. "It's a bit late to try to get away from me now, don't you think?"

"Tony?" she muttered, finally opening her eyes.

"You were having a nightmare." She frowned, trying to remember.

"I was in Russia," she finally said, still frowning. "It was not long after I…" Her voice trailed off, her head shaking slightly. Suddenly, surprising him, she leaned forward, pressing her lips tightly to his. He was caught off-guard for about half a second before returning the kiss, allowing her to push him back down to the mattress. She pulled away to toss her hair over her shoulder, making him grin up at her.

"I love you," he said honestly. She grinned back at him.

"DiNozzo," she said in a mock-scolding tone as she leaned back down. "You talk too much." He chuckled as her lips met his again briefly before she straightened, the blanket slipping down her back.

And then the phone rang.

"Voicemail," he managed, just about the only intelligible phrase his mind could come up with at the moment.

"It is your phone," Ziva pointed out.

"Let it go to voicemail," he repeated, his hands resting on Ziva's hips. He groaned in frustration as she leaned over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. She never let it go to voicemail. Something about Gibbs' Rule Three. He tried pointing out that Rule Three was 'never be unreachable', not 'always answer the phone', but his protests always fell on deaf ears.

She pressed the 'accept' button the phone and held it to his ear. "DiNozzo," he barked, glaring at Ziva as he did so. He could feel her body shaking slightly with her silent chuckle.

"_Did I interrupt something?_"

"Actually, Boss, yeah," he snapped. "Some of us have better things to do in the middle of the night than build a damn boat."

"_Don't care. Got a call from Stan. He'll be on in MTAC in half an hour._" There was a pause. "_Better let Ziva drive if you're going to make it on time_." Gibbs hung up before DiNozzo could respond. With a heavy sigh, he tossed the phone back to the nightstand and looked over to Ziva, already climbing out of bed.

"I will get you back for that," he muttered darkly. She turned back and let her eyes graze over his body with a leer.

"Looking forward to it," she replied cheerfully. He glared as he forcefully pulled open his dresser drawer.

It was going to be a long morning.

---

"Good morning, DiNozzo," NCIS Special Agent Stan Burley said cheerfully as Tony and Ziva entered MTAC to join Gibbs and McGee. DiNozzo glared at the image on the screen.

"I don't think we can consider it 'morning' yet," he grumbled. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Burley's grin widened.

"Time for you to be impressed with everything I've accomplished while you were sleeping."

"Wasn't actually doing much sleeping, Burley," DiNozzo said, still frustrated at being pulled out of bed at 0230. Burley's grin widened as his eyes traveled from DiNozzo to Ziva and back again, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"You said you got something for us," Gibbs said bluntly, ignoring the side dialog between his former senior field agent and his current one. Burley smirked once more at DiNozzo before he crossed his arms over the digital camouflage of his blank Marine uniform, leaning back against the desk behind him. The backdrop was an empty concrete wall, not the large picture window of the Bahrain field office, making the DC agents suspect that he was still in Afghanistan.

"We found Hardoon," he said as an opener, instantly grabbing the attention of everyone in the room. "Or, rather, we found Kazem Shirazi, at a maximum security center in Herat province, near the border with Iran. We contacted Officer Thal, she grabbed a helo ride from…someone. She didn't share who." Ziva smiled slightly, knowing the resourcefulness that Mossad training taught. Thal would have been able to talk her way onto anybody's helicopter, including the Taliban, if they had them. "Thal and I—and Ellis Pride, the Agency interrogator in these parts—spent the last five hours interviewing him."

"State Department approved that?" Gibbs asked, half in jest. Burley rolled his eyes.

"Hell, no," he said emphatically. "Freiler, my junior field agent, found Hardoon's location without their knowledge. That kid certainly knows his way around a database. If we wanted State's approval on anything, we'd probably be waiting until the next administration."

Gibbs smirked slightly. "You used to _be_ State, Burley."

"And there's a reason why I left," the Bahrain supervisory field agent shot back.

"Does Hardoon know where Dr. Aachen is?" Ziva asked impatiently, cutting off Gibbs and Burley's back-and-forth. Burley shook his head, a remorseful expression taking over on his face.

"He had no clue," he said bluntly. The high hopes of everyone in the room deflated at once, creating an almost palpable change in the atmosphere.

"You called us here at," DiNozzo glanced at his watch, "0300 to tell us that you've learned nothing new?" he asked the man on the screen in disbelief.

"I said he didn't know where Dr. Aachen was," Burley repeated. "I didn't say we didn't learn anything new."

"Burley," Tony said warningly. "It is still _far_ too early to be playing games."

"Give me a break, DiNozzo," Burley shot back. "Being SAC in the Middle East isn't all fun and games. I've spent the last few days dealing with JAGs, MPs, and detainees, and catching sleep when and where I can, which has mostly been during transport from one base to another. I need to enjoy myself whenever I can." Both Tony and Ziva carefully avoided Gibbs' amused glance in their direction. "Thal, Pride, and I spent the morning with Hardoon, going over his story and trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't. It's not that we don't trust Hardoon; we don't trust the guys he was talking to while we've been holding him for almost a month." He didn't sound remorseful at the fact that they had been unintentionally detaining a Mossad officer for that time; it was one of the risks of the job, and they all knew that. "He didn't know anything about Dr. Aachen, Boss. Gibbs." DiNozzo smirked at Burley's slip, but the Bahrain SAC didn't let it distract him for long. "Hardoon never spent any time in Kabul; his operations were mostly in Herat province."

"Rough territory," DiNozzo commented.

"Certainly not for the faint of heart," Burley agreed before he grinned. "Almost as bad as working for Gibbs." He cleared his throat at Gibbs' glare. "So like I was saying, nothing on Aachen, but he did give us quite a lot on possible future Taliban activity. Between us and the Israelis, the terrorists aren't going to be getting away with much any time soon."

"Tell me you have something we can use _now_, Stan," Gibbs growled.

"We have something we can use now," the special agent replied from his position in Afghanistan. "Hardoon gave us a name. We checked it out before sending our Mossad friends back to Tel Aviv. Niko Zajac, Belarusian all-around thug. He's got his fingers in just about every pie there is—arms dealing, drugs, persons trafficking. Mostly from Eastern Europe and the rest of the former USSR, but he seems to be part of some sort of mentorship program in the crime arena; he spends his free time helping small-time thugs increase their influence. For a price, of course."

"Of course," Gibbs said dryly. "What does this Zajac have to do with Dr. Aachen?"

"Maybe nothing," Burley admitted. "But some of these small-time thugs he's been rumored to be helping includes some Taliban cells around Kabul."

"Explains why they've been more successful lately," DiNozzo commented.

"No kidding," Burley replied dryly.

"You bringing him in for questioning?" Gibbs asked.

"Actually, I was thinking we should leave that for you," Burley replied. "Hardoon heard rumors about Zajac's location; Kim and Freiler confirmed them. He's with his family at their summer vacation home in the Hampton's. Apparently, there are some pre-season 'events' going on this weekend."

"Oh, yeah," DiNozzo said knowingly. "I remember that from growing up in the Hamptons. Everyone comes in for the weekend, rubs elbows, pretend they all like each other when really they're just deciding who they're going to actively hate that summer. Then a couple of months later when the season opens for real, suddenly two or three families—usually new money, new to the area—find themselves shunned and spending their time at their winter estates in Switzerland instead and they have no idea why. Thank God we were too well connected for that." He stopped talking when he realized that everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"We'll send a couple agents to the party and bring him in," Gibbs said. DiNozzo snorted, straightening when he noticed Gibbs' glare. "Something funny, DiNozzo?"

"Well, yeah, Boss," he replied. "You can't just _walk _into these parties. People try for years to get an invite."

"Actually, DiNozzo, I thought it would be a perfect job for you and Officer David," Burley remarked, loosing the battle with the smirk that was tugging on his lips. "You _are_ familiar with the territory, after all, and from the world on the street, David can go undercover anywhere."

"Been a long time since I've been welcomed in those circles, Burley."

"Then consider this a perfect opportunity to make your grand re-entry."

"Still a matter of getting an invite."

"Shouldn't be too difficult." Again, he was fighting the smirk on his features. "After all, you know the host of this year's party. A Mr. Alessandro DiNozzo."


	19. Chapter 19

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 19**

_A/N: So, talk about your frustrating computer woes... I lost my story, including the chapter and a half that I had written since the last time I backed it up (a chapter and a half that I liked, no less), and spent too much time trying to recover it, and then gave up and tried to rewrite it (not really caring much for the results). Well, to make a long story short--I found it! I'm still frustrated at how much time was wasted, but at least you get the good version._

_So, your recap... Against the wishes of the State Department, the NCIS Bahrain team located and interviewed Ezra Hardoon before turning him back over to his control officer, Raanan Thal, for further debriefing in Tel Aviv. Unfortunately, he didn't prove to be the fountain of information that they hoped it would be. He doesn't know anything about Dr. Aachen, but did give them the name of a man financing Taliban cells around Kabul, as well as his current location: the Hamptons, about to attend a party hosted by Alessandro DiNozzo. Other things that have happened so far: Abby couldn't get anything probative off the video of the abduction, Gibbs and Ducky looked into the backgrounds of Peter Kirkan and Alyse Aachen (prompting Ducky to be less-than-convinced that we can explain this as an act of terrorism), and McGee has been backing up his co-workers._

_Oh, and I recently watched the episode "Dead Man Walking" and discovered something I hadn't seen before on base while walking from NNMC to the gym, so I changed my avatar in honor of that._

* * *

DiNozzo descended the stairs from MTAC quickly, ignoring the protests of his coworkers and friends. It had been a long time since he had stormed out of a meeting like that, but he felt it was warranted this time around.

It had also been a long time since he had seen his father, but he didn't feel like working a case and chasing down an international arms dealer and financier of terrorists was the right time for a reunion.

He retreated to the back break area, by the vending machines, a space that was abandoned and darkened in the early morning hour. He took a deep breath as he leaned against the machine, reflecting on the sudden turns in his life, including this most recent one. Two hours ago, he was sleeping in Ziva's apartment, about to wake up and wake her up as well, for an activity infinitely more fun than going into MTAC to be ordered back to the estate he stopped thinking of as 'home' when he was fourteen.

"Can you please move, Tony?" He smiled slightly at that tone and opened his eyes to see Ziva standing just in front of him, an almost impatient look on her face as she looked past him to the vending machine. "I have not had breakfast yet, and you are blocking the vending machine."

He felt himself begin to relax at her commanding tone. "Next you're going to be asking me for a dollar," he teased, stepping aside.

"No," she replied. "Money is not necessary, yes?" It was a widely-known secret, almost to the point of being an urban legend within NCIS Headquarters, that Tony DiNozzo could release whatever was found at C5 without money, but despite many efforts, nobody else had been able to emulate it. He grinned and stepped aside, gesturing for her to try.

Just as he expected, she hit the machine a few times, but nothing happened, earning the inanimate object a long string of swear words in Hebrew, as well as a few kicks. "Here," he said with a chuckle, and with one well-placed smack, a Hershey's milk chocolate bar with almonds came tumbling down. "For you," he said chivalrously, bending down to retrieve it from the tray. As an afterthought, he decided to pound on the machine once more for his own breakfast.

"I still do not know how you do that," Ziva grumbled as they leaned side-by-side against the machine, both quietly eating their chocolate bars.

"You just have to have the magic touch," he replied, grinning after the double entendre registered in his mind. Ziva snorted softly.

"You will not get an argument from me on that point," she replied with a knowing smirk. He chuckled before they again lapsed into silence. "I am thinking that I should not have answered the phone earlier, yes?"

He chuckled again. "You'll never get an argument from _me_ about _that_," he pointed out. He stared down at his candy for a minute. "I don't know how this is going to work."

"You have not spoken to your father in some time," she said. He wasn't sure if she was agreeing with him or trying to point out why this mission was a good idea.

"No," he said. "I haven't." He didn't say anything else, and after a few minutes of silence, he began to feel Ziva's frustration grow.

"What is the problem, Tony?" she finally asked.

"What am I supposed to say?" he shot back, turning to face her. "'Hi, Dad. Haven't seen you in awhile. Mind if I join the party and perhaps pull one of your guests aside for some questions about a missing Navy doc? Oh, and by the way, this is my girlfriend, Ziva. She's from Israel. And did I mention that she's a Mossad assassin well-trained in interrogation methods?'"

"If you explain the situation—"

"You don't know my father," he interrupted.

"And whose fault is that?" she shot back. He gave a frustrated sigh and leaned back against the vending machine. "Maybe it is time you repair the bridges." He smiled slightly, but didn't correct the idiom. "My father—"

"Your father was dying, Ziva," he interrupted. "Mine's throwing a party. Not exactly the same situation."

"No," she agreed softly. "It is not. But this is the best lead we have had so far about Dr. Aachen's location."

"It's not a lead," he argued. "It's so far from being a lead that it's practically a non-lead." She quirked an eyebrow at that, and he relented. "Okay, maybe not. But we don't even know that Dr. Aachen's abduction has anything to do with the Taliban," he pointed out. "There has been _no_ increase in chatter; nobody is saying _anything_. It's been a couple of days now. Don't you think we would have heard _something_?"

"And that is a reason to give up?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when nothing came to mind. He gave her a self-depreciating smile. "Why does it seem like I can never win an argument against you?"

"Because I am always right," she shot back with a smirk. "So you will do it?"

He nodded, despite his better judgment. "I'll give him a call in a few hours."

"In a few hours?"

This time, he grinned as he held up his wrist, adorned with the watch that Ziva bought him for his last birthday, which made him suspect that Israeli government agents were paid much better than their American counterparts. "Normal people aren't exactly out of bed yet, Ziva. Not that my father is all that normal, but even he needs to sleep every once in awhile."

She nodded, even having the good graces to look sheepish that she had gotten carried away and forgot the hour before her expression fixed in one of determination. "It is the middle of the day in Moscow," she reminded him. "We should speak to the Eastern European contacts and see what they have on Zajac."

He groaned, but followed her back to their desks. "I would much rather be doing what we were doing before you decided to answer my phone," he grumbled. She just laughed.

---

Alessandro DiNozzo always woke up at 0430, spent at least an hour on his stationery bike or treadmill or elliptical while reading the market reports from Asia, showered while his butler prepared his breakfast, and ate by himself while analyzing the business forecasts for the upcoming day. It was the same routine he had had for about fifty years, and everyone who knew him knew that he didn't like to be disturbed in those hours. Deals have been broken by those not in the know or thinking that they were exempt from the rules interrupting those few hours that DiNozzo had to himself.

Which was why Anthony DiNozzo waited until 0800 to call his father.

He retreated to the area behind the stairs and stared at his cell phone for a long moment before scrolling through his contacts to the one that was transferred from one phone to the next without fail, but hadn't been called in, well, in a long time. Before he could talk himself out of what he was about to do, he hit the 'send' button.

"_DiNozzo_." Tony winced at the greeting, the same one he gave whenever he answered the phone.

"Hi, Dad," he finally said. He cleared his throat slightly. "It's Tony."

"_I figured that, Anthony._" The elder DiNozzo sounded almost amused—almost. "_There is only one person who could call me 'dad'._"

"Right," Tony replied, flinching slightly. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"_Is there something you needed?_"

"Uh, yes, actually." He glanced up to see Ziva standing by the stairs, watching him with interest but still giving him space. He gestured for her to come closer and rested his free hand on her hip before resuming his conversation. "I—actually, my girlfriend and I—have a couple extra days off this weekend. She's never been to the Hamptons, and I know the off-season isn't the best representation of the Hamptons, but—" He cut himself off when he realized that he was rambling, and cursed himself for still allowing this man to intimidate him, even after so many years. The whole conversation had gone so much better in his head. "I figured that the estate would be empty, and was wondering if we could borrow it for the weekend." He glanced down at Ziva to see her smiling at the cover story.

His request was met with silence before his father spoke again. "_Actually, Anthony, I'm currently at the estate. There is a pre-season event this weekend._"

"Oh," Tony replied, as if that was news to him. "Okay. Uh, I guess we'll figure something else out for the weekend. Sorry to bother you."

"_It's no bother, Anthony._" There was a long pause. "_If you'd like to show your girlfriend what the Hamptons is truly like, the two of you can come to the event. I can have one of my assistants take you into the city in the helicopter to get you something to wear._" Although the offer grated on Tony—yet another reminder of how the cop son didn't fit into Alessandro DiNozzo's image-important world—the idea of a new Armani suit and pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes distracted him momentarily.

"I'll see what she wants to do," he finally said. "I'll give you a call when we decide."

"_I look forward to hearing from you_," Alessandro replied. "_Whatever you choose to do._"

"I'll let you know before the end of the day," Tony promised. With nothing else to say, he ended the call. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before he opened them to Ziva's questioning expression. "We're in," he informed her. She smiled and squeezed his hand before he leaned down and kissed her lightly, surprising her. He gave her an ironic and slightly sarcastic smile. "Happy anniversary."


	20. Chapter 20

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 20**

_A/N: I feel almost dirty for admitting this, but NNMC is a _much_ nicer hospital than Walter Reed (probably why they're closing Reed and moving it over to Bethesda...) That being said, Navy doctors are crazy. Seriously. You know it's bad when the intern wearing an Army Combat Uniform is the most sane person in the room._

_Anyway, to sum up the case thus far (at least the important points): the NCIS Bahrain team has found and released Ezra Hardoon, sending him back to Tel Aviv with his control officer, Raanan Thal, after questioning him about Dr. Aachen's abduction. He didn't know anything, but he did point them in the direction of a man who might, an arms dealer/drug dealer/persons trafficker/all-around-bad-guy financing Taliban cells in the Kabul area, near Camp Phoenix, where Dr. Aachen was abducted from. He's going to be in the Hamptons for the weekend, at a party hosted by Tony's father, Alessandro DiNozzo, and between Stan Burley and Ziva, they convinced Tony to agree to go to the Hamptons to apprehend and question him. _

* * *

When Peter Kirkan walked into NCIS, he had bags under his eyes and a look of confusion on his face. He stopped at the edge of the bull pen, almost afraid to enter. There was some sort of intense staring going on between Agent DiNozzo and Officer David, where they would both appear to be working on something, then would glance at the other with a look that made him think they were trying to beam some sort of telepathic communication to each other, and as illogical as he knew it was, he was afraid of physical injury if he stepped into the crossfire. Although he knew it was silly, he continued past their desks and crossed to the other side behind the staircase, to where Agent McGee was surreptitiously watching them with an amused look on his face.

"What's going on?" he finally asked. McGee blinked in surprise before turning to face Kirkan; the writer was sure that the agent hadn't even noticed he was standing there, he was that focused on his co-workers.

"Tony and Ziva are going undercover," he finally said, nodding to the other two occupants of the bull pen. "Well, kinda undercover. They're going as themselves to the house where Tony grew up."

"How is that undercover?" Kirkan asked with a frown.

"Well, none of the guests at the party are going to know that they'll be there to question one of the, well, one of the _other_ guests."

Kirkan's frown deepened as he processed that sentence, trying to figure out why DiNozzo and David would be going undercover to a party. "There was a break in the case," he finally said.

"Kinda," McGee allowed, then hesitated as he weighed how much he should be sharing with the abductee's husband. "The NCIS agents in Bahrain found a Mossad operative who had been undercover in a Taliban cell. He was captured about a month ago and spent some time in American detainee centers ever since. He didn't know anything about where your wife—uh, Dr. Aachen—is or who would have kidnapped her or why, but he did have the name of an Eastern European arms dealer who is rumored to be financing Taliban cells around Kabul. They also found out that he's in the Hamptons for a few weeks for a pre-season party."

"At the house where Agent DiNozzo grew up?"

McGee nodded. "I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried," he confided. Kirkan bit back the first thing that came to his mind: he had read McGee's—or, rather, Gemcity's—books, and knew that statement to be true. After meeting the Major Crimes Response Team, he couldn't help but wonder if there was _anything_ in the _Deep Six_ series that was fictional. Of course, he didn't have too much room to talk in that department; he had written Mitch Lindholm, Bryan Lindemann, Jess Ting, and Alyse into each of his stories, and characters based on Colleen O'Conner and Wyatt and Ellie Reynolds had appeared in at least two of his four novels. "Tony's father is the CEO of a holding company and has made some very good business decisions over the years. His net worth is in at area of the millions where it doesn't really matter what the actual number is, because you have so much money you can't possibly spend it all if you tried."

"And his son works for NCIS." There was no judgment in his tone; after all, he himself had a wife who definitely didn't need to work for the Navy, but did so anyway. He would never look down on somebody in the armed forces or chose to work with those in uniform, no matter what their reasons.

"That's apparently some long and involved story," McGee confided. Kirkan was sure that the younger man didn't know the details, or maybe was saving them for the next book. He smirked inwardly; Alyse was always teasing him about his generally cynical view of other people. He replied that someone who listed _House of God_ as one of her favorite books and claimed that the first season of _Scrubs_ summed up internship perfectly didn't have any room to be calling anybody else cynical. "All I know is that Tony is not looking forward to going up to the Hamptons, undercover or not."

"It doesn't help that their anniversary is in two days." Both men turned to face Abby Sciuto, wearning an expression on her face that was a combination of bubbly and understanding. McGee frowned.

"Already?" he asked, appearing to be mentally calculating dates. Abby nodded, her black pigtails bobbing.

"Two days," she repeated. "And Tony was really excited about it, so I think he had something planned, but I doubt that something had anything to do with going to the Hamptons to hobnob with the type of people he grew up with."

"Something planned?" McGee asked with a frown. "He wasn't planning on proposing or anything, was he?"

Abby scoffed. "Proposing? Tony and Ziva engaged? Right." She shook her head again. "I have no idea what he was going to do, but it would probably be something a lot more Tony-and-Ziva-ish to celebrate their two-year anniversary. Like helicopter lessons or a trip to a nuclear weapon firing range or something."

McGee nodded absently at the assessment before frowning slightly. "Anniversary of _what_?" he asked. "Is there a point where they actually started _dating_?"

"I asked Tony that last year," Abby confided. "He uses the first time they slept together. Ziva goes along with that because, well, because she's not really all that sentimental. Besides, it would be really hard for them to find another relationship landmark."

"I guess that's as good a date as any," McGee agreed. Seeing the confused look on Kirkan's face, he explained, "Tony and Ziva started dating, if you want to call it that, two years ago while they were on _another_ undercover mission."

"So now they have this thing about going undercover together," Abby rushed in. "They don't like doing it at all. Tony said it's like a reminder of how screwed-up their relationship is."

"Tony tells you a lot about their relationship, doesn't he?" McGee asked with a frown.

"You guys do realize that _we can hear everything you're saying_, right?" DiNozzo finally asked, his eyes not lifting from the document he was studying. Ziva looked up at them and raised her eyebrows before glancing over at Tony and then back at her computer screen. McGee looked embarrassed; Abby just shrugged. As entertaining as the sidebar with Agent McGee and Ms. Sciuto was, Kirkan decided that if he wanted information about what this undercover-but-not-undercover mission was, he should probably ask the people going.

"What's in the Hamptons?"

"It's more of a who," DiNozzo replied after a long silent pause, during which there was some sort of unspoken communication with Officer David. "And we don't really know yet."

"What _do_ you know?" Kirkan asked insistently. DiNozzo raised his eyebrows at the tone, but Kirkan wasn't about to apologize for it. He was a reporter; he knew how to press for information.

"International bad guy, giving all sorts of money and goodies to the Taliban, now apparently rubbing elbows with my father," the NCIS agent said bitterly. "Knowing my father's taste in friends, he'll probably be invited to his next wedding."

"Your father is getting married?" Ziva asked. DiNozzo shrugged.

"Bound to happen sooner or later. He doesn't go long without a wife, and wives don't last long. I stopped counting how many times he's been married a long time ago."

"I should go with you," Kirkan said suddenly. Both DiNozzo and Ziva turned to him, eyebrows raised in expressions that were almost comical in how similar they were. "If this guy has anything to do with who took Alyse, I should go with you."

"Good luck," DiNozzo offered with a falsely light tone. "It's not exactly easy to wrangle an invite to these parties."

"That wouldn't be a problem," Kirkan argued. "My publisher is always trying to get me to get out more, trying to get me to promote my own books. She says the eccentric recluse thing only works for Salman Rushdie. She'd find a way to get me in if I said I wanted to go. If I could just go, to see this guy and show him—"

"No," Ziva interrupted with a shake of her head, rising from her chair to step closer to where Kirkan was standing. When she spoke again, her voice was low and intense. "Men like this, this Zajac, the type of men who finance terrorists and traffickers, they do not care about anybody but themselves. Families do not matter, with the exception of their own families." She remembered being tied to a chair in a hotel room, listening to a man calmly explain to a couple he thought was expecting a child about the sacrifices that he had made, how he would much rather be celebrating his own daughter's birthday than sitting in a hotel room in DC, about to kill them. "They do not care about other people's husbands, or wives, or parents or children, because they do not think of other people as people, merely objects that can be manipulated for their own gains."

"You don't know—"

"I know the type of people who go into this line of work," Ziva interrupted again. She didn't break eye contact with Kirkan. "They do not become arms dealers and traffickers because they are good people out of their luck."

"Down on their luck," Tony corrected automatically. She ignored him.

"They know that what they do hurts people, but they do not care. The only concern that they have is lining their own pockets. They do not have morals. They do not care to rationalize that the ends justify the means, because they do not even think about the means, as long as the ends are reached."

"Did that even make sense?" DiNozzo asked with a frown. She again ignored him. Kirkan shook his head slowly.

"I can't just sit around doing nothing," he said, his eyes traveling from Officer David to Agent DiNozzo and back, finally settling on DiNozzo. "I spent the first six years of my adult life in the Corps, and they didn't exactly teach us how to wait for other people to solve our problems. Hell, I went off to war because we made it our business to solve _their_ problems." He took a deep breath. "I know that this is what you guys do for a living and that you're good at it, but this is killing me. This is my _wife_; she's the most important thing in the world to me by far. I need to do something. Anything. Even if it's just being in the same _state_ while you question the guy who might know where Alyse is being held." He searched DiNozzo's eyes for some understanding, and while he saw it, he also saw that the NCIS agent wasn't going to cave. "Please."

DiNozzo shook his head. "You took care of the country," he said. "And your wife takes care of those who take care of the country. Our job is to take care of her. Let us do our job. We'll get Alyse back."


	21. Chapter 21

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 21**

_A/N: Just because I'm getting lazy, I decided to cut back on my story recaps; I feel like I'm writing the same thing every day and got tired of doing so. So I'll do my best to get you up-to-date every couple of chapters, instead of each one._

_And as much as I hate begging for reviews, I'm going to do so. Let me know what you think, good or bad. I like feedback. _

* * *

Ziva David leaned her head back, letting her long ponytail whip in the wind as she closed her eyes under her sunglasses, trying desperately to pretend that she was back in Israel and not driving north with the top down in Tony's convertible in March.

No such luck. The heater was on as high as it went and she was wrapped in a jacket and blanket, and still freezing. She didn't know what she was thinking when she agreed with Tony's idea that putting the top down while they drove to the Hamptons would get them in the "beach spirit", whatever that was supposed to mean. She didn't know what he was trying to avoid: the thought of going after yet another arms dealer, or the thought of seeing his father.

She wasn't sure if he even knew.

"You want to stop and get something to eat?" She opened her eyes and turned to face him, seeing him looking over at her with a curious expression on his face.

"We just ate two hours ago." He frowned.

"Your point?"

She rolled her eyes. "If you had let me drive, we would be there already and would not need to stop and get something to eat."

"I don't think even you could turn a 1965 Mustang into a fighter jet."

She smiled thinly at that. "If we had left when I suggested, we would not need a fighter jet."

"You're the one who wanted to go running this morning."

She opened her mouth in indignation. "And you are the one who tackled me to the bed after I had showered and dressed!"

"I don't remember hearing you complaining," he shot back with a grin. "So, food?"

"Is that all you think about, Tony?"

He gave her a mock pout. "Ziva, I'm hurt. You've known me long enough to know that's not true." She opened her mouth to protest, but he was faster. "I also spend a good deal of time thinking about sex."

She snorted at his wide grin. "I have been able to figure that out," she replied dryly.

"I saw a billboard for a Cracker Barrel in about twenty miles."

She frowned, mentally replaying the conversation to figure out what he was talking about. "Is that some sort of derogatory racist term?" she finally asked. He laughed.

"It's a restaurant."

"But a 'cracker' is a slur for a white person of lower socioeconomic class, yes?"

"You don't know what _spam_ is, but you've heard the term _cracker_?" He grinned and shook his head in wonder. "Do you want to stop or not?"

She sighed in defeat. "If it is that important to you, Tony, we can stop." He smiled again, but she couldn't help but notice that it didn't quite reach his eyes.

An hour and a half after they stopped—she was still mentally rolling her eyes at the fact that Tony 'couldn't decide' what he wanted to eat, despite the fact that she had known from the moment she opened the menu that he would be ordering the largest breakfast they offered, with bacon—they headed back out to the freshly refueled car, ready to resume their trip. At least, Ziva was, although she suspected that they wouldn't be on the road long before Tony found another delaying tactic.

With this in mind, she stopped before they reached the Mustang and turned to face him. An almost mischievous smile on her face, she tilted her head up to kiss him, her hands resting on his hips as he let himself get distracted. A minute later, she pulled away from him triumphantly and jingled the keys she had pulled out of his pocket in front of his face. "I am driving," she declared, turning to unlock the driver's door. "No more stops. At this rate, the weekend will be over by the time we arrive."

"Hey!" he protested, but relented at the stern look she gave him. He rolled his eyes as he made his way over to the passenger side and waited for her to unlock the door for him.

They weren't far from the outskirts of the Hamptons when they had to stop again for gas. It had been a fairly quiet drive, conversation wise. Tony had initially continued the pointless rambling he had started in the restaurant, but even that had lapsed when Ziva didn't respond, not hearing anything worth responding to. Eventually, he turned on the radio, and she focused on driving—in the same manner she always drove—while staying warm as they continued toward their destination.

"I'll take over," Tony said from his position, leaning against the hood of the Mustang. She glanced at him over the top of her sunglasses, and he held his hands up defensively. "We'll go straight there, I promise. No more stops." She studied him for a minute longer before nodding her agreement, reaching for a water bottle before making her way to the passenger side of the car.

"This was the route I took while driving back for breaks from school," he commented as they resumed the trip. He glanced over to see her watching him through her sunglasses, and smiled slightly at the wary expression on her face. "I always drove," he continued. "Loved the drive in my old Mustang, but loved the fact that that was all the less time I had to spend at the estate with good 'ole Dad and step-mommy of the month even more." His jaw clenched a few times, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel before he continued. "Stopped thinking of the estate as 'home' when I was fourteen and my father's wife at the time—and don't ask which number it was, because I have no idea—decided that it would be better if I wasn't around and convinced my father that I needed to go to military school. Came back that Christmas to find that my room had been converted to a guestroom. Never really got over that." Ziva bit back a sarcastic comeback to the effect of how it was the loss of his childhood room, more than anything else, that registered with him, knowing that it wasn't really what he needed to hear. When she didn't say anything, he continued. "Dad frowned on my chosen major—and my chosen school—but didn't say too much about it. He had probably figured out by then that I wasn't going to be following in his footsteps, and figured that a professional basketball player was better than nothing." Again, his jaw clenched, and again, Ziva knew that it was better not to say anything and let him continue to vent. "All bets were off when I blew out my knee. I didn't really have a back-up plan—never thought I needed one—and when a frat brother suggested I talk to his father about a job with the Peoria PD, I figured I had nothing to lose. My father was less than thrilled. Kept trying to convince me to come work for him, even offered a brownstone in Manhattan and a pretty nice allowance to try to win me over, and I was tempted—oh, boy, was I tempted—but if there was one thing I learned from being shoved out of the house at fourteen, it was that I had to take care of myself." He gave a bitter chuckle. "I guess I hadn't realized until my dad cut me off once and for all just how hard it was to live off a new cop's pay, but as they say, I had burned my bridges long before that."

"You had not seen him since then."

He shook his head. "Nope. Not once. Two years in Peoria, eighteen months in Philly, almost two years in Baltimore, ten years with NCIS, and the only contact I have had with my father is an occasional wedding invitation and maybe a Christmas card or two from the firm." He kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him for a long minute, not glancing over at the large houses they began driving by. "I'm still surprised that he agreed to let us come to the estate at all, much less invited us to his little party."

"Parents have a way of surprising their children sometimes," Ziva commented. He glanced over at her and removed his hand from the gearshift to squeeze hers briefly before shaking his head.

"Neither of us really won the 'great dad' lottery, but my father is nothing like yours," he said. He smiled thinly. "Except maybe for the great car collection, but for my dad, it's more about collecting status symbols than really enjoying them." He lapsed into silence again before suddenly turning on the turn signal, pulling into a long paved driveway and heading toward a wrought-iron gate. Without saying anything else to her, he leaned out the open window and gave his largest cheesy grin at the guard box just off to the left. "Tony DiNozzo, Ziva David," he said to the rent-a-cop glancing down at them. The slightly-overweight middle-aged man frowned slightly before nodding and pressing a button to open the gates. Tony waited until the impressive-looking gate had slid almost all the way open before the Mustang rolled forward again. He turned to Ziva and gave her that same large grin, the one that didn't reach his eyes, that he gave to the guard. "Welcome to _La Casa_ DiNozzo."


	22. Chapter 22

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 22**

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! It made me happy to see that so many people are enjoying the story. By all means, keep them coming. If there's something you think needs to be included to make the story run better, let me know._

_I'll include a recap in the next chapter._

* * *

Peter Kirkan shut off the engine and sighed, leaning forward for a moment to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. He straightened before he could gather any attention; dark-haired men acting suspiciously in the parking lots of United States Army research facilities rarely had a nice day after that.

He had gotten in his car that morning with every intention of driving north to Long Island, Ziva David's words of warning be damned. He didn't care what she said about the useless of such actions; he was going to go to the Hamptons, call Lyndi and get her to get him an invitation to DiNozzo's party, and confront this man, this Zajac. He didn't know how he was going to get him to talk - such things are easier to write into novels than actually plan out in real life - but in his mind, he was going to get the information out of the arms dealer, tell Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT where Alyse was, and get his wife back.

He had gotten as far as the Capital Beltway - ten minutes from his Bethesda condo, thanks to the morning traffic in front of NNMC - before he realized how insanely stupid that plan was, and how little getting himself killed in the playground of the rich and famous was going to help Alyse. So without really knowing what he hoped to accomplish, or even say, at his new destination, he changed directions and drove into Virginia, to the parking lot where he was currently sitting.

With another heavy breath, he stepped out of the car, using the remote to lock it behind him as he crossed the parking lot and headed into the building. He nodded to the civilian guards as he stepped through the metal detector on the way to the front desk.

"I'm here to see Bryan Lindemann," he informed the uniformed sergeant. The Army non-commissioned officer gestured toward the sign-in sheet.

"Name?" the sergeant—Zilka, according to his nametape—asked. Kirkan smirked slightly as he offered a Navy dependent card.

"Peter Aachen," he said. Sergeant Zilka glanced at the ID card and nodded. It was a legitimate Department of Defense card; in typical government contractor fashion, the man at the ID desk hadn't been paying attention to what he was doing when Kirkan registered as LT Alyse Aachen's dependent, and made the card with her surname on it. Alyse had laughed and asked if they could keep it. Apparently, the man making IDs didn't realize that, legally, it was supposed to be destroyed.

"Do you have an appointment?" Kirkan shook his head.

"No, but I'm a friend," he said. Sergeant Zilka frowned slightly, but handed over a visitor's pass anyway. Kirkan clipped it to his shirt, smiling wryly as he thought about just how many visitor's passes he'd been wearing the last few days.

"Do you want an escort?" Zilka asked.

"No, I know the way. Thanks," Kirkan replied, smiling slightly as he turned and headed down the corridor.

Bryan Lindemann's office was on the fourth floor, a large corner space that would make vice presidents of corporations in DC jealous. Kirkan rapped his knuckles on the open door, earning him a slight smile in response. "I got a call that a Mr. Peter Aachen was here for me," the engineer commented without looking up. "I was tempted to correct the sergeant and inform him that it was _Gregory_ Aachen, but I figured you wouldn't like that much."

Kirkan rolled his eyes. "Not like he would know who that was," he scoffed. "I'm a writer, not some actor or producer or something. I'm hardly a household name."

"Hey, you're the closest thing to a celebrity of any of my friends, so that's good enough for me." Lindemann finally glanced up from his computer and glanced up at his friend, and just as he did every time he saw the former Army officer, Kirkan felt like he was looking at a World War I Army recruiting poster. Lindemann's sandy hair, while longer now than it was in the days when he still wore a uniform, was still regulation length, and with his blue eyes and strong features, he had 'All-American-Good-Boy' written all over him. Jess Ting liked to joke that if they included a picture of Bryan on the West Point brochures, they would have no problems recruiting female cadets. He looked more like an actor playing a soldier than most actors did; Kirkan was always surprised that Hollywood studios hadn't snatched him up when he left the Army.

Of course, most Hollywood studios weren't interested in one-legged soldiers.

"So what's up?" Lindemann asked, distracting Factor from his internal musings. "You didn't sign in as Peter Kirkan and show your press pass—which you're _supposed_ to do, even if it's a social call—so I know you're not writing a story."

"No," Kirkan agreed. "It really is a social call. I was in the area—"

"Bethesda is almost an hour away. Longer in traffic."

"I take Beach Drive. No traffic lights." As he did every time he visited Lindemann at his office, he found himself glancing around at his surroundings, even though nothing ever changed. Lindemann had his diplomas—a Bachelor's in mechanical engineering from West Point and a Master's in the same from CalTech—as well as his rank certificates and pictures of his units. The only strictly personal touches he had were a pair of pictures on his desk: one of Bryan and Jess as newly-commissioned second lieutenants at their West Point graduation, and another of them years later, dressed much more casually at a waterfall in Hawaii. Kirkan often wondered if Lindemann kept a picture of Jess in a bikini on his desk to make other men jealous, or to remind himself to go home every night. Even as a happily married man, Kirkan was able to recognize that Jayashri Ting—the petite yet well-endowed half-Indian, half-Chinese daughter of two Mayo Clinic physicians—was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He also knew that he was only allowed to admit that because Alyse happened to agree with that assessment.

When his eyes met his friend's again, he saw Lindemann giving him a long look. "Let's grab lunch," the engineer said abruptly, pushing his chair back from his desk.

"It's ten am," Kirkan pointed out.

"Brunch, then."

"Brunch is something the girls do on Sundays and inevitably involves a lot of champagne and mimosas."

Lindemann snorted as he grabbed his keys from his desk drawer. "No kidding," he scoffed. "Every week, Jess comes home completely drunk, immediately passes out, and wakes up hung-over just in time for me to want dinner."

"They work hard," Kirkan pointed out as they headed out of the office. "Sometimes they tend to party hard, too."

"I think if most Americans knew how their doctors acted in their off-hours, they'd be a lot less likely to ever go to the hospital." Kirkan chuckled in agreement as he followed Lindemann to where the engineer's car was parked, in the far corner of the parking lot. Despite having only one leg—and a very expensive prosthetic second leg, courtesy of the United States government—he refused to get a handicapped placard, stating that they were for people who were handicapped, and that most certainly wasn't him. Not only did he walk without a limp, but he still regularly competed in marathons. He had less difficulty crossing a parking lot than Kirkan did.

They ended up at a pancake place about half a mile from Lindemann's office, which had plenty of empty tables at that odd hour. "How's Jess?" Kirkan asked after the waitress took their orders and left them with an entire pot of coffee.

"She's Jess," Lindemann replied. "You know, works too hard, drinks too much, complains about her job, doesn't tell anybody anything about how she's feeling or what she's thinking. Same as always."

"Having issues?"

Lindemann took a long drink of the too-hot coffee. "I got offered a position teaching at West Point," he said.

"Your dream job."

"No kidding. I talked about it with Jess, and you know what she said?"

"Not to take it?"

"No. That's just the thing." He frowned. "She said it's a great opportunity for me, et cetera, et cetera. She's starting a two-year fellowship at Shock Trauma in Baltimore in July. I told her that if I'm going to be turning down my dream job to stay near her, I'd like to know that she thinks about me as more than a roommate. So she said that maybe I shouldn't turn it down."

"Ouch."

"No shit. We're in a détente at the moment." He smiled up at the waitress as she brought their pancakes and dug in with sufficient gusto that made Kirkan wonder if the other man was moments away from heading out on a combat mission. "Monday evening," Lindemann began after he swallowed, changing the subject. "Olazzo. You in? It was just me and Jess, and then she had to go invite Luigi. I need someone there to keep me from taking a swing at one of our brothers-in-arms." 'Luigi' was Dr. Josh Campano, another Walter Reed surgeon, who, at the beginning of their internship years before, was supposed to go to a concert with Alyse but ended up getting drunk and hooking up with Jess the night before and called it off with Alyse. The 'friends with benefits' thing with Jess lasted about three months, before she ran into Bryan in Ward 57 at Walter Reed, when she was post-call and he was there for a follow-up appointment for his amputation. A quick lunch turned into grabbing drinks and appetizers during happy hour, which turned into a full dinner, and by end of the evening, the two Army captains remembered why they had dated for almost three years at West Point, and Dr. Campano was all but forgotten. Kirkan still couldn't figure out how the three doctors were all still friends after all that, but it didn't seem to faze any of them.

"I think I'd be more likely to help you take him down than to keep you from doing so," he said dryly in response to Lindemann's comment.

"He never slept with your wife," Lindemann pointed out.

"True," Kirkan agreed. "I'll let you know about Monday."

"It won't be the same without Alyse, but the wine is half off on Mondays, so that should mean something." He took in another few shovelfuls of food before speaking again. "How is Alyse, anyway?" He must have seen something on Kirkan's face, because he put his fork down and gave the older man his undivided attention. "Nothing happened to Alyse, did it?"

Kirkan frowned at the question, but didn't answer it. "I have a combat-related question for you," he said slowly. Lindemann's eyebrows rose.

"You were a scout sniper," he said. "I was an engineer who, for some strange reason, was given an airborne infantry company before I missed the landing zone and ended up hitting the one undetonated land mine in a four hundred kilometer radius. You saw a lot more combat than I did."

"And as your girlfriend likes to remind me, I was a grunt," Kirkan said dryly. "I stood around and waited for someone to point my rifle in the right direction and tell me to fire. This is definitely a company-grade officer question." He cleared his throat slightly. "What I need to know… How do you act on intelligence that someone might be financing terrorist activity? That somebody might be behind…something big."

Lindemann frowned. "Please tell me you're researching a new book," he said slowly. When Kirkan didn't say anything, he pressed further. "Pete… What's going on? What happened to Alyse?"

The writer took a deep breath. "She's missing," he finally said. "She was abducted from her office at the hospital clinic."

"Holy shit," Lindemann breathed. "When?"

"A few days ago. NCIS is working on finding her. They received intel that an Eastern European arms dealer has been financing Taliban cells around Kabul and might have something to do with this. Said arms dealer is in the Hamptons for the weekend; a couple agents are going up to apprehend and question him."

"It sounds like NCIS has things under control, then," Lindemann said slowly. "I don't understand what your question is."

Kirkan's hands flew into the air. "I can't just sit around like this," he complained. "I need to _do_ something. I feel like I need to go to New York myself, that if I could explain to this guy—"

"Not going to help," Lindemann interrupted forcefully. "Yeah, it's hard, Pete. It _sucks_, to be sidelined like this, but you need to let them do their jobs. Honestly, having a reporter-slash-novelist poking around and getting in the way of their investigation is only going to slow them down." He paused. "If there's anything Jess or I could do for you—"

"No," the writer said with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes, a habit he seemed to have picked up since Alyse's abduction. "I just… I can't help this feeling that this has something to do with _me_, and I have no idea why I feel that way. Everyone at NCIS seems to be convinced that it has something to do with the Taliban, except for their medical examiner, who I think thinks that Alyse somehow arranged this herself because she's depressed or suicidal or something."

"Alyse? Depressed?"

"Yeah. That's what I said. But they all seem focused on the terrorism angle, which I have to admit, makes the most sense. It seems like you can't throw a rock in the Middle East without hitting someone who wants to bring down the capitalist devil or some such thing, and other than Alyse, I don't even _know_ anybody in Afghanistan, and I have no idea why somebody would do anything to _her_ because of _me._"

"Other than the fact that the advance on your last novel had almost as many zeroes as my last research budget?" Kirkan frowned at the words, and Lindemann continued. "How many people over there know that Alyse Aachen's husband is the elusive Gregory Aachen?"

"A couple of the other docs," Kirkan admitted. He knew that he talked about it with Alyse once a couple of months before, but couldn't remember the whole conversation. He made a mental note to find that video and review it, to figure out just how wide-spread that bit of knowledge had been. "But if this was about money, don't you think somebody would have _asked_ for some by now?"

"I know it's been twenty years since you were deployed," the engineer said, again picking up his fork, now idly twirling it in his hand, "and for the most part, communication back home is infinitely better—after all, you talk to Alyse on Skype every day—but finding new information isn't always easy, especially if what they're looking for is contact info of a novelist who doesn't post his contact info anywhere."

"If they have Alyse, why don't they just ask her for it?" He refused to think about the alternative, that she was in a state where she wasn't capable of letting her captors know his phone number or email address. Lindemann gave him an odd look, and he wondered if the younger man was thinking the same thing.

"Are we talking about the same woman here?" the engineer practically demanded, "because the Dr. Alyse Aachen I know is one of the most stubborn and independent women on the planet."

"Right after Dr. Jayashri Ting?" Kirkan asked dryly.

"Exactly," Lindemann replied, allowing himself a small grin. "You have to admit, it's not outside the realm of possibilities for Alyse to refuse to say anything. It probably wouldn't even register to her that talking would get her back to base or her clinic or wherever sooner; she's probably sitting somewhere, plotting how she can get herself out of the situation in true _Great Escape_ fashion."

"More like _Hogan's Heroes_," Kirkan replied. "At least, that's what I'm going to choose to believe." He would much rather think of his wife being held by incompetent guards in a comedy than anything from _Great Escape_.

"I know a few people at Camp Phoenix," Lindemann said. "I'll get in touch with them and see what they know about Alyse, even though it sounds like NCIS has been doing that already. I know criminal investigations aren't exactly my area of expertise—pretty far from it, really—but I did spend a total of eighteen months in the Middle East, and I've never heard of terrorists acting this way. There would have been so much chatter that it would be all over ZNN by now." He gave his friend an intense look. "Pete, if you want to help Alyse, the best thing for her wouldn't be to polish your rifle and pretend you're still a sniper and go after this guy in the Hamptons. You're a reporter now; do what reporters do. Get to the bottom of this and try to figure out who the hell knows that Alyse is your wife and would benefit from that."


	23. Chapter 23

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 23**

_A/N: As promised, your recap: Dr. Alyse Aachen, a Navy lieutenant, was abducted from her office at Camp Phoenix, Afghanistan. Her husband and one of Gibbs' former Marines, Peter Kirkan, contacted NCIS to find her. There were few leads initially; the best one appeared to be a Mossad operative, Ezra Hardoon, who had been captured and held in American detainee camps for about a month. However, after they located Hardoon and questioned him about the abduction, they discovered that he knew nothing about who would want Dr. Aachen, or any other American physician. He did, however, have the name of a man who had been financing Taliban activities around Kabul, Afghanistan, and may therefore know something. He is currently in the Hamptons, which is where Tony and Ziva are heading in order to apprehend and question him. Kirkan was about to follow them north in order to confront this financier, Zajac, himself, but changed his mind and ended up visiting a friend, former Army captain Bryan Lindemann, instead, who helped him realize that maybe terrorist activities can't explain everything about this case._

_In other manners, Mossad Director Ruthven has been threatening to terminate Ziva's position with NCIS since he ascended to that agency's top office, prompting her and Tony to seek alternate arrangements. Tony has been trying to convince Director Vance to promote him and give him his own team, preferably Bahrain after Stan Burley completes his time there, and has been studying anti-terrorism policies and practices in order to strengthen his case for promotion. Gibbs, recognizing DiNozzo's new-found expertise in these manners, was able to figure out why, and now knows that Tony and Ziva are planning on leaving as soon as positions become available._

_I think that's pretty much everything that's been going on._

* * *

Tony pulled the Mustang up to the front of the house that looked straight out of a Hollywood movie set, down to the stone façade and white columns and roundabout driveway complete with a well-landscaped fountain in the middle. A currently non-functioning fountain, surrounded by a small team of maintenance personnel and landscapers, but a fountain nonetheless. The whole situation was so different than the man Ziva had lived-with-but-not-lived-with for the last two years, the man who rented a non-descript one-bedroom apartment in DC and paid extra for his ideal parking space, who knew good food but didn't like taking the time to prepare it, who could make her laugh and annoy her with the same movie quote inside of a week.

Men like that didn't grow up in estates with stone facades and fountains.

Before Tony could even slide the gearshift into the 'park' position, a well-built man in his late fifties or early sixties stepped out of the front door and headed toward them. "Mr. DiNozzo, Ms. David," he said, his tone completely neutral. "Would you like your car taken to the garage?"

"No, thanks," Tony replied automatically. Ziva did her best to hide her smirk; Tony didn't let anybody drive his car, except her—and that was only when he didn't have a choice. "I know where it is."

"Very well," the man—butler?—replied, his voice still neutral. "Some help with your luggage, then?"

Tony looked ready to refuse again, but changed his mind at the last second and nodded, turning off the car to get out and unlock the trunk. Instead of just letting the other man move their bags into the house, he grabbed the heaviest of the bags and carried them himself; another thing people who grew up in houses like that _didn't_ do.

She was strangely proud of him at that moment.

When he returned to the car, he glanced over at her with a tight smile on his face, and she surprised him by leaning over and kissing him, her fingers lightly brushing his jaw. When they separated, his smile had turned into a grin. "I'm glad you're here," he said honestly. She just smiled in return as he turned and again started the car to head toward the detached garage.

"You want a tour of the grounds?" he asked after parking the car. "The beach is just down that way, and—"

"Tony," she interrupted, her tone emphatic. "You can not avoid going into the house forever."

"You sure?" he quipped in return, the expression on his face making it obvious that he was going to avoid talking about anything serious. "'Cause the garage is climate-controlled, and we can get my father's houseboy to bring us our meals—"

"I am sure," she interrupted, turning and heading toward the door of the garage. He had to jog a few steps to catch up, and when he did, grabbed her hand and laced his fingers between hers. She looked over at him and rolled her eyes, but gave his hand a reassuring squeeze anyway.

The entered the large stone estate to see a tall, thin, young blond in a designer tennis outfit berating the butler who had helped Tony carry the bags into the foyer. She stopped when Tony and Ziva entered and frowned at them, a severe expression that somehow didn't make her any less attractive. Tony guessed former model; the only question was whether she was his father's girlfriend or his wife. "And who are you?" she demanded of them, her Russian accent obvious.

Tony gave her his best 'aren't I charming?' grin, which made her eyes narrow dangerously. "Tony DiNozzo," he replied. "Alessandro's son. And you are?"

Her entire manner changed instantly, going from hostile to seductive in the blink of the eye. "Oh," she said, somehow making the syllable sound like an invitation to go to bed. "Tatyana Ulshanovna. I am Alexi's fiancée." She practically sashayed the few steps closer to where Tony stood, her eyes sweeping his entire body. "I can see that Alexi passed on his good looks."

Tony had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting in laughter, seeing what was going on: that she was a gold-digger was obvious, but what was humorous was the thought that she could go from father to son and still end up on top. She obviously wasn't privy to the fact that the younger DiNozzo had been cut off from his father's fortune, just as she wasn't aware that Anthony DiNozzo came with a state-sponsored assassin.

It was said assassin who cleared her throat loudly. "And I am Ziva David," she said, her voice somehow sharp and dangerous without sounding harsh. Tatyana gave her an uninterested look before returning her attention to Tony, giving him another bright smile. Tony could practically feel Ziva rolling her eyes at the blond.

"So," he said, taking a step back when Tatyana's hand drifted toward his arm, "any idea where I can find my father?" Had this been a movie, he would have been chuckling at the awkwardness of the situation; how _did_ one balance the desire to get away from his father's gold-digging fiancée with the desire to avoid his father?

Tatyana gave him a pout before turning away. "I do not know," she said, her voice now laced with disinterest.

"I'm right behind you." Both Tony and Ziva spun at sudden voice to see a tall, lean man step out of the hallway, dressed casually in a dark polo shirt and pressed khaki pants, his hair entirely white but his dark eyes still sharp. They stood there in silence for a long minute until Alessandro twirled the glass in his hand absently, the wet clinking of the ice breaking the quiet before he spoke again. "I thought you would be here hours ago."

"We decided to stop and get something to eat along the way," Tony replied automatically. It had been the better part of two decades since he had seen his father face-to-face, and now that he was right there, he found he couldn't look away. Although he knew that his father was now in his seventies, and looked relatively young for a man of his age, he couldn't get over how much _older_ he looked than the last time he had seen him. That thought made him wonder what his father thought of the passage of the years in him; after all, he wasn't as young as he had been, either. "Dad, this is Ziva David. Ziva, my father, Alessandro DiNozzo."

"It is nice to meet you," Ziva said politely, offering her hand. Alessandro's eyebrows rose as he accepted it, appearing to study her closely.

"Israel?" he finally asked. Now it was her turn for her eyebrows to go up.

"That is correct," she replied.

"Middle Eastern accent with a Star of David," he said to her unanswered question, nodding toward the charm around her neck. "That narrows down the choices significantly."

Her hand went involuntarily to her neck before she nodded slowly. "It does," she agreed. She finally turned to look to Tony to find him looking on with an expression that was an odd combination of amusement, annoyance, and hostility. She gave him a slight smile and ran her fingers down the back of his hand subtly. He gave her a smile in return as he captured that hand and gave it a squeeze before dropping it.

Alessandro appeared to have watched the entire exchange with amusement and no small amount of scrutiny. "I had Michael prepare the guestroom in the east wing," he finally said. "But if you prefer, we can have him make up the guest cottage out back."

Tony glanced over at Ziva, indicating that she should decide, but Tatyana jumped in before either could say anything. "There is no need to be all the way out in the guest cottage," she said. "After all, you are family." Still looking over at her, Tony didn't miss the slightly homicidal glint to Ziva's eyes, and if he were anywhere but the marble foyer of his father's house, he would have laughed. It wasn't every day he saw her even remotely jealous.

"There is no need to change plans," Ziva reluctantly agreed. "The guestroom will suffice." There was a flash of a triumphant expression on Tatyana's face before it returned to her previous practiced disinterest and boredom, and Tony again had to resist the temptation to smirk. Ziva David was one woman Tatyana Ulshanovna did not want a cat fight with.

"Great," Tony said, a bit too loudly and too enthusiastically. He flinched at his own tone. "Well, it was a long drive, so we'll just get our bags…" His voice trailed off as he looked around him, not seeing the luggage he helped Michael carry into the house from the Mustang. "Where are our bags?"

"They're in the east wing guestroom, Mr. DiNozzo," Michael, the off-season caretaker and jack-of-all-trades around the estate, replied. "Would you like me to show you the way?"

"No," Tony said quickly. This time, the smile he gave was one that didn't reach his eyes, the one he gave when he was faced with a fact he wasn't comfortable with. "I know the way." He gave his father a tight nod, and an almost questioning look to Tatyana, who had latched herself around his father's waist and was glaring in Ziva's direction, as if she was somehow marking her territory. She was going to be an interesting one, he had to give his father that. Just, not quite the type of interesting that was the _good_ type of interesting. More like suffocate-you-in-your-sleep-to-collect-life-insurance interesting. Of course, he was the one sleeping with a trained assassin, so maybe he didn't have much room to talk.

"Anthony," his father interrupted when they were half way up the marble staircase. "Will you and Ziva be joining us for dinner tonight? We weren't planning anything formal or big, just bread, salad, crab legs, and wine, perhaps out on the veranda, if the wind doesn't pick up."

"No," he said, turning to Ziva and giving her the first genuine smile since arriving at his childhood home. She looked at him with a slightly quizzical expression on her face and appeared almost ready to jump in and counter his words until he spoke again. "We already have plans, but thanks." He turned back to his father and gave another tight smile before resuming the climb up the stairs. He wondered in the back of his mind what he would find in the east wing guestroom. Even though he knew that it wouldn't be what he would see, part of him would always expect to find the four-poster canopy bed and heavy drapes that his mother picked out for that room during her Louis XV phase more than thirty years before.


	24. Chapter 24

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 24**

_A/N: Happy Labor Day to all my fellow Americans! I hope you get a chance to enjoy the holiday (ie, you're having better weather than DC currently is...)_

* * *

Tony DiNozzo studied his reflection in the mirror of the tastefully-yet-impersonally-decorated guestroom, the room he still remembered as his bedroom for the first fourteen years of his life, as he secured the knot of his tie at his neck. His eyebrows rose appreciatively as the bathroom door opened, and he slowly turned to take in the sight of the woman who appeared there. Dark curls cascading down her back and over a dark brown dress that clung and hung in all the right places, ending in well-shaped legs and strappy heels that couldn't be comfortable to walk in. "You look beautiful," he finally said after he found his voice.

"Wipe your mouth, Tony, you are drooling," she said with a smile, making him grin in return as he remembered a conversation two years before. He knew the next line.

"I was just thinking about how great that dress would look—"

"On the floor," she finished, taking a step closer to him.

"I thought the exact same thing the last time I saw you in that dress," he said, referring to their first 'date' as Major Ziva Kenig and Dr. Tony Dinallo in the case that brought them together. "Never did get to see how it would look the floor, though."

"Maybe tonight you will get lucky and find out," she teased, reaching up to adjust his tie.

"Why wait until tonight?" he asked, his voice low as he brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder.

"We will be late for dinner," she said, her voice again brusque as she took a step back from him.

"Forget dinner," he said. "We can just stay in and—"

"Have wine and crab with your father and future step-mother?" she asked. He made a face.

"Not quite what I was thinking," he grumbled. She smiled slightly at him.

"Then maybe we should get going for dinner," she said. He didn't move.

"You really do look amazing," he said honestly. "I thought the same thing when I saw you in that dress two years ago."

"I know," she said simply.

"I just wish I hadn't been too much of a coward to do _this_ two years ago," he said, leaning down to kiss her gently, careful not to muss her hair or the light make-up that she wore.

"Mmm. I wish you had," she replied as they separated, her eyes still closed. She opened them to see him studying her with an amused look on his face.

"As I recall, it was _you_ who told me not to," he reminded her. She smiled again at that.

"And you who eventually ignored that," she shot back.

"Do you regret it?"

She leaned forward and kissed him again, her hands resting lightly at his elbows. "Never," she replied as they separated. "Shall we go?"

He nodded, still watching her closely as she retrieved a small brown designer clutch from her suitcase. "Since when did you carry around a purse?" he asked lightly.

"This dress does not have pockets, Tony," she replied, her tone almost mocking.

"Well, I know," he admitted. "But when you don't have pockets, you usually just have me carry around your stuff." Not that it was much stuff; she didn't have a tendency to carry much. Usually it was just her ID and her credentials, as she didn't wear much make-up and always somehow kept a weapon on her body. His eyes swept her body again, trying to figure out where it was that day. He finally decided that it must be a knife strapped to her thigh before his eyes returned to hers, seeing her watching him with an amused expression on her face.

"My knife," she said. "Right thigh."

"That was my first guess," he said with a grin. "Although you just ruined the fun in finding out for sure."

She smiled seductively and slightly teasingly at that. "Are you saying that that was the only reason to undress me later?"

"Not what I meant, and you know it," he replied. "Now we really should get going to dinner, because any more talk like that and I really am cancelling our reservation so we can stay in." She laughed and leaned forward to give him another small kiss before turning and heading toward the door of the guestroom.

They had almost descended the stairs into the foyer when Alessandro DiNozzo appeared from a downstairs hallway, a new glass in hand. He seemed to take a long minute studying their manner of dress as he slowly sipped the amber liquid. "Off to dinner?" he finally asked.

Tony bit back the first thing that came to mind—_No, we decided to get dressed up for an off-season swim in the ocean_—and just nodded. "Yeah," he replied. "We have reservations at Amanna." Alessandro nodded slowly, taking another sip of his beverage before reaching into his back pocket. Tony bristled as he watched his father pull out his wallet and open it to reach for his credit card. "I can pay for my own dinner," he snapped. "Ziva's, too."

His father paused, the credit card halfway out of its slot, before looking up and studying his son. His eyes swept the NCIS agent's frame, a slight frown on his face, and again, Tony had to restrain himself from lashing out. _It's Armani, you bastard,_ he thought angrily. He knew that his resentment must have been showing on his face when he felt Ziva's hand gently rest on his arm, but he didn't turn to acknowledge her. "Very well," Alessandro finally said. "That's your choice."

"Yeah," Tony snapped. "It is."

"Tony," Ziva said in a low, almost warning, voice. Again, he didn't turn to face her, his eyes still on his father as his jaw clenched.

"Let's go," he said abruptly, turning quickly to head toward the door closest to the garage, the clicking of her heels on the marble floor telling him without having to look that Ziva was following barely a step behind him.

His key was out and ready to unlock the passenger side door of the Mustang when he was unexpectedly turned and slammed against the door. He barely had time to process the move before Ziva's lips were on his in a bruising kiss. Just as abruptly as it began, Ziva pulled away. He couldn't even think to form a question about what that was when she said, "That is what you should be thinking about during dinner tonight. Not your father."

A smile began to form as he processed her words. "You're too good for me," he said, only partially joking.

"I know," she said lightly. "Now are we going to dinner?" He grinned and opened her door before making his way to the driver's side. A glance at the Lamborghini parked next to his car caused another surge of anger at his father and his disapproval, but he quickly pressed that down, determined that he was going to enjoy this evening with Ziva.

---

Amanna was a newer restaurant in East Hampton, and was one of those places where one would be more likely to run into a Hollywood star in the Hamptons on vacation than teenagers with their dates—unless said teenagers were actually Hollywood stars. Unfortunately for Tony, it was also one of those places where you did not park your own car. Ever. Ziva rolled her eyes slightly at his hesitation before handing over the key to the Mustang, and almost laughed at his mournful expression watching it drive off for some unseen parking lot. "They're going to be pulling a _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_, I can just feel it." She frowned slightly, which he took as an invitation to launch into yet another involved oration about a movie. "John Hughes, 1986, starring Matthew Broderick. Three high school students play hooky for the day—"

"Tony," she interrupted, "you have made me watch the movie. I was just going to point out that that car was a Ferrari, not a Mustang." He stared at her in disbelief for a moment before grinning.

A blond woman in all black—black shirt, black skirt that was a little too short for the weather, black stiletto heels—held the door open for them, a disinterested expression on her face. "Welcome to Amanna," she muttered.

"Thanks," Tony replied, his sarcasm probably a little bit too subtle for the woman to notice. He turned his attention to the maître d', a middle-aged man in a tuxedo and an expression of disinterest to rival that of the woman at the door. "Reservation for DiNozzo," he said.

That got the man's attention; he instantly frowned, studying DiNozzo carefully. "DiNozzo?" he repeated, sounding suspicious and distrustful, and Tony was sure that he was about to be reported for identity theft.

"_Anthony_ DiNozzo," Tony emphasized. The maitre d' relaxed slightly, seeming to accept that as he appeared to do the mental math to decide that the man standing before him was most likely the son of the man he obviously knew from previous encounters.

"Right this way," he said, retrieving menus and directing them into the restaurant. Judging by the table he led them to, whoever took his reservation had also thought that it was Alessandro DiNozzo who would be there; it was a very good table, a quiet booth away from the restrooms and kitchen, and in a location where they wouldn't be ignored by their waiter. "Our wine list," he continued, handing DiNozzo the good-sized wine menu. Tony smirked slightly; he already knew exactly what bottle he'd be ordering. "And your waiter will be here shortly."

"Thanks," Tony said. Ziva smiled up at him as well before he nodded and walked away.

Just as the maitre d' promised, the waiter was there after a few minutes. "We'll have a bottle of Cristal," Tony said right away. Ziva's eyebrows rose, and then lowered as her eyes narrowed.

"You did not take the NCIS credit card before we left DC, did you?" she asked, her voice low. He chuckled and shook his head, knowing what the question was referring to; NCIS was footing the bill the last time he had ordered that particular champagne, which was also the last time she had worn that dress.

The food was delicious and the conversation only laced with a few movie quotes, but since it didn't contain any angst about his father, Ziva tolerated them with a smile on her face. They were halfway through dessert when Ziva pulled a small wrapped package out of her purse. "Happy anniversary," she said as she handed it over. His eyebrows rose as he studied it.

"Well, it's too small to be another car," he joked.

"Just open it," she said in exasperation. He grinned as he did what she commanded, revealing a brown leather wallet. His old one had been falling apart, which apparently hadn't escaped her notice; considering how often he opened it to find his credit cards in different slots than where he had put them last, he suspected that her noticing had a lot to do with her taking it from his pocket without him realizing it. "That is not all," she said, nodding toward it. "Inside." With a questioning expression on his face, he unfolded the wallet and checked the money slot to find two tickets to the Ohio State vs. University of Miami football game in Miami, Florida in September.

"How did you get these?" he asked in wonder. "Tickets aren't available to _anyone_ for another couple of weeks." He saw the knowing look on her face. "How do you have contacts in the athletic department at OSU? The Russian mafia, sure, but _Ohio State_?"

She didn't answer his question, changing the subject by giving him a very seductive look. "The rest of your present is back at the house."

He grinned, accepting that he probably wouldn't ever get an answer to his question as he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to remove a jewelry box. "Not that I have anything against your usual necklace, but I figured this one would go better with the dress you brought for the party." The circular charm on the gold necklace was larger and more bulky than her usual Star of David, the chain thicker, but Ziva agreed that it would look much better with the dress she got for the party.

"Thank you," she said, "but I do not think that this is the large present that Abby said that you said you were getting."

He considered that for a moment and was about to make a joke about not being satisfied with the present she got, but before he said anything, decided that he might as well tell her what she was going to get. He reached into his inner pocket again, this time pulling out a plain white envelope. He studied it for a moment before lifting his eyes to hers. "Sorry," was all he said as he handed it over.

She opened the envelope and pulled out a print-out of an itinerary from an online travel site. The first-class tickets from Dulles to San Juan, Puerto Rico were for the next day. "I already submitted the leave paperwork and found your passport—your _real_ passport, that is. I was going to pack our bags, come up with some reason that you had to leave with me from work, and go straight to the airport," he admitted. "I know you hate surprises, but—"

"I would have forgiven you eventually," she interrupted. She leaned over to kiss him. "I am sorry that we had to miss it."

"Well, it's work, and—"

"Work does not come first, Tony," she said emphatically. "It is just—"

"I know," he interrupted. He gave her a tight smile. "I can't really blame Dr. Aachen for getting kidnapped and messing up our vacation plans."

"There will be other vacations," she said.

"Yeah. I know," he replied, trying for a light tone and failing. There would be other vacations, but there would also be other kidnapped physicians, and murdered Marines, and Navy SEALs committing suicide by changing out their D-links. He really couldn't see any of that getting any better when he got his own team, and was starting to understand why all of Gibbs' relationships ended so poorly.


	25. Chapter 25

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 25**

* * *

Tony awoke the morning after the anniversary dinner—and the events that followed; it turned out that part of the 'rest of the present' that Ziva referred to at dinner was honeydust—to find the other half the bed empty. Although he knew that Ziva had probably just gotten up to go for a run and didn't want to wake him, he had a brief surge of panic at the thought that she had gone after Tatyana and taken out the former model before breakfast. He actually chuckled out loud at the thought; gold-digger or not, his father's fiancée was hardly worth the effort.

He was just stepping out of the shower when Ziva returned to the guestroom, her face still flushed from the run and the colder air. "You could have woken me up," he said. She smirked slightly.

"You just looked so adorable sleeping there," she teased. That, and she had some phone calls to make alone, but she didn't say that to him. The last thing he needed while he was dealing with his father for the first time in almost two decades and giving up his vacation to catch an arms dealer was for him to think that she didn't trust him. She kicked off her running shoes before peeling off her shirt, smiling to herself as she noticed Tony's eyes following her across the room. "I will see you down at breakfast, yes?"

"If you need someone to wash your back…" He grinned as she rolled her eyes before closing the bathroom door.

He was whistling slightly as he quickly descended the stairs, grinning as he remembered deciding—at about eight years old—that sliding down the banister would be a great idea. He ended up crashing into some sort of antique end table, breaking it and the French vase before slamming into the marble floor and getting the first of what would be many concussions. His grin faded as the rest came back to him: his mother had run out from sun room, drink still in hand, and had gone into such a panic that she couldn't form a coherent sentence. She ended up retreating back into the sun room, probably to fix herself another mint julep, and it had fallen on Harry the butler to drive him to the emergency room.

He shook his head slightly at the memory, then froze as he entered the kitchen, seeing his father with the _Financial Times_ at the table, wearing his usual 'casual' dress of a polo shirt over pressed khakis that probably cost as much as one of Tony's suits. Alessandro glanced up and nodded slightly. "Anthony," he greeted.

"Dad," Tony replied cautiously.

"Would you like some breakfast? Michael can whip up anything you want."

"No, thanks," Tony answered. "I can make my own breakfast." He took in the gourmet kitchen for the first time and wondered idly if the remodel had been his father's idea or if it came from one of the ex-wives.

It took him a few tries, but he finally located the coffee mugs, and then it was a glance around to try to find the coffee maker. "Is this an espresso machine?" he asked, nodding toward what certainly looked like an espresso machine. His father glanced up and nodded.

"I picked it up during a side-trip to Florence when I was doing business in Zurich last year."

"Nice," he said appreciatively.

Alessandro shrugged as he returned his attention to his newspaper. "Never did see the point in acquiring a taste for black coffee," he said absently. "Far too bitter." Tony paused in his search for all the ingredients at the words; he had no idea that he had inherited his father's taste for coffee. "The espresso beans are in the freezer, milk is in the refrigerator, and cocoa powder is in that silver canister, if you wanted a mocha," he said, nodding toward a jar behind the espresso machine.

"Thanks," Tony said slowly. His father nodded, turning a page in the paper. "So," he said awkwardly, "is your, uh, fiancée around?"

"Tatyana sleeps late," Alessandro replied, not bothering to look up. It was only the sound of footsteps descending the stairs that stopped his sarcastic reply about the gold-digger's social life.

"Good morning," Ziva said as she entered the kitchen. Alessandro merely glanced up at her and nodded. "Is there coffee?"

"I can make you a latte," Tony said with a grin, indicating the espresso machine. She rolled her eyes. "I was going to make an omelet for breakfast, if you wanted one." She nodded in the affirmative, reaching for her own mug to make herself a mocha while leaving Tony to the cooking. They fell into an uneasy silence, aware that Tony's father would be able to hear anything they would say.

As if knowing what they were thinking, Alessandro rose from the kitchen table, taking the time to fold the newspaper neatly. "I believe it's time for me to check in with the European offices," he said mildly. Tony nodded at that, not trusting himself to say anything; he was pretty sure if he opened his mouth, the only thing that would come out would be a sarcastic comment about it also being time for his father to be fixing himself a drink.

They had their omelets on their plates before Ziva spoke. "We need to come up with a plan for tonight," she said.

"I was thinking of finding Zajac, pulling him into an empty room, and releasing you for a Mossad-style interrogation," he replied. "Maybe something from _Audition. _It was this 1999 Japanese film with some of the most gruesome torture scenes I've ever seen. There was this one—"

"I do not think that would be a good idea," she interrupted dryly. "I do not think your father's maid would appreciate the bloodstains in the carpet." She took a moment to eat a few bites of her breakfast. "We should coordinate with Gibbs and McGee through MTAC. With the involvement of a few agents from one of the subordinate offices in New York, we could create a perimeter and—"

"Too involved," he interjected with a shake of his head. He grinned suddenly. "You start proposing perimeters and operational security, and people are going to start thinking that you liaise with the FBI, not NCIS. We're _supposed_ to be cowboys, remember? Besides, we don't have the time to pull off something like that, and as you of all people know, the more people you involve, the more likely you are to be made. We need to keep this small. You and I will be on the ground here. We'll need to come up with a way to separate Zajac from the party without alarming his bodyguards. Business deals are always good covers."

"And so are propositions." Tony narrowed his eyes slightly before deciding she was joking and moving on.

"After we get him out, we'll have to get him to a place where we can…" His voice trailed off, his expression becoming thoughtful.

"Torture him?" Ziva asked dryly.

"Not quite what I had in mind. I have an idea. Let's go." He rose abruptly from the table. Ziva sighed and quickly drained the last of her mocha.

"You are clearly ready to be promoted," she said dryly as she followed him to the door. "You are becoming as vague as Gibbs."

---

Tony pulled the Mustang into the parking lot at the East Hampton Police Department and killed the engine. "The East Hampton Police Department?" Ziva asked. "You do not want to contact the closest NCIS subordinate field offices, but you will involve local LEOs?"

"Things are going to be going down in their jurisdiction," he pointed out. "Common courtesy."

"I am sure," she muttered dryly. He gave her a disarming grin as he held the door open for her.

"Excuse me," he said to the sergeant at the desk. The police officer looked up from the small television he was watching and smacked his gum a few times before speaking.

"Yeah?"

"We need to speak to your chief," Tony said. The sergeant smirked.

"Why? Someone scratched your Maserati or Lamborghini or Porsche or something?"

Tony gave a loud fake laugh and pointed at the sergeant. "Now, you see, that's funny. Because if I'm in East Hampton, I _must_ be rich and overreact about my car." His expression became serious as he pulled out his credentials. "Special Agent DiNozzo, NCIS; my partner, Ziva David." She smiled slightly as she also flashed her badge and ID. "Now, can I talk to your chief?"

"I'll take you to him, sir," the sergeant replied, slightly embarrassed. His back was to DiNozzo as he got up, causing him to miss the federal agent's smirk.

"Chief?" the sergeant said as he tapped his knuckles against the open office door. "There are a couple of CIA agents here to talk to you."

"NCIS, actually," DiNozzo corrected. He blinked in surprise as the face and the name on the desk fully registered. "Hebdon?"

"Tony DiNozzo!" the tall black police chief exclaimed in reply. He rose from his chair and reached across the desk to give a handshake/one-armed hug. "Holy hell! I haven't seen you since you left for Ohio State!" He grinned, revealing two lines of perfectly straight, white teeth. "And now you're a fed. Who woulda thought?"

Tony chuckled self-consciously as he turned to Ziva to explain. "The chief and I used to play ball—"

"He'd come over to slum it in Sag Harbor for a _real_ game when he wasn't too busy at those expensive boarding schools," Chief Hebdon corrected with a laugh. "Cedric Hebdon," he introduced, extending his hand toward Ziva, who took it.

"Ziva David," she replied. Hebdon smirked slightly.

"I've got some stories on this one," he said, pointing to DiNozzo. "If you woulda told me twenty years ago that DiNozzo would become a fed, I woulda laughed your ass right outta this office, some of the stuff he did as a kid."

"You're a find one to talk, Hebdon," Tony said dryly. "I take it that since you made chief of the EHPD that Samuel Preston never did find out who made those footsteps on the side of his summer house to climb up into his daughter's window."

Chief Hebdon hooted in laughter before his expression became serious. "Don't think you came back to the Hamptons to shoot the shit, so let's get down to business. What can the EHPD do for the Navy?"

"Well, we were hoping to borrow an interrogation room for a couple of hours," DiNozzo replied. Hebdon considered this for a minute.

"Do I want to know what for?" he finally asked.

"Does the name Niko Zajac mean anything to you?" Hebdon shook his head. "International arms dealer, drug dealer, financier of terrorist cells," Tony summed up in one line. "Might have something to do with the abduction of a Navy lieutenant in Afghanistan a few days ago. We have reasons to believe he's in town."

"Your father's party." Tony grimaced.

"Yeah." He glanced over at Ziva. "We just wanted a chance to…talk, to him about his activities."

Chief Hebdon's eyes went from the NCIS agent to Mossad liaison and back again a few times. "Talk," he repeated.

"Just a friendly chat," DiNozzo reassured him. Hebdon remained silent for a few more minutes as he thought about it.

"Normally, I'd want some more information," he finally said before a slow grin appeared on his face. "And unless you got a personality transplant since you were eighteen—which I can already tell hasn't happened—I can't help but wonder how much of this sanctioned. Or even legal. But hell, I still owe you for all that good liquor you used to swipe from your dad." He leaned across the desk, his arm extended. "Pleasure doing business with you again, DiNozzo."


	26. Chapter 26

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 26**

_A/N: Just a quick recap in case you need to be brought up to speed. Tony and Ziva are currently in the Hamptons, where they hope to find an international bad guy, Niko Zajac, who Mossad operative Ezra Hardoon believes might be behind the abduction of Dr. Aachen. The rest of the team is still in DC, running down leads and preparing for Zajac's interrogation from there._

* * *

Parties in the Hamptons didn't start until at least 2100; nobody of any significance showed up before midnight. All of that was why personnel from at least three federal agencies—McGee recognized representatives from the FBI and the CIA, in addition to the usual suspects at NCIS—began filing into MTAC at 2030.

"I think this movie would be better with popcorn." He almost jumped at the voice of the person who slid into the seat next to him. Abby Sciuto nodded at the striped 'standby' screen. "It's a bit dull."

"Abby, what are you doing here?" he asked with a frown. "Don't you have anything to do in the lab?"

"Timmy, I'm hurt," she pouted. "I do _so_ much more than lab work!" He sighed.

"I know," he replied on a conciliatory tone. "But that doesn't explain why—"

"It's been, like, _forever_ since I've seen you guys," she interrupted. "I mean, there's _zero_ forensics evidence in this case, so I've been keeping busy working on cold cases and the things from other teams, and you guys have been up in the squadroom doing your thing, and I missed you." She shrugged and turned back to the screen. "Besides, I wanted to see Tony and Ziva all dressed up."

"I'm sure if you asked, they would have taken pictures," he said dryly. She punched him in the arm.

"Be nice," she scolded. He sighed.

"Call DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered as he strode into MTAC, a cup of coffee in hand to openly defy Vance's 'no drinks in MTAC' order. "Need to know what they have planned."

"Sure thing, Boss," McGee replied, glad for the excuse to get up from his seat next to Abby and man the controls.

A minute later, they heard the ringing of the phone over the speakers, followed by the sound of the call connecting. A distinctly female laugh was heard before Ziva answered, "_Hello?_"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "It's DiNozzo's phone, Ziva."

"_Yes, I know_," she replied.

"Can we talk to him?" Gibbs asked slowly when she didn't say anything else.

"_You should have just said so_," she replied. "_He is right here_." There was some muffled laughter and light arguments before DiNozzo's voice was heard.

"_Sorry about that, Boss,_" the senior field said. "_What's up?_"

"Hopefully, a plan for tonight," Gibbs snapped. "Please tell me you two have been doing something up there other than playing grab-ass."

"_If you must know, Boss, it was Ziva who—_"

"DiNozzo!"

"_Right, Boss. You don't want to know._" His voice became serious as he got down to business. "_Party won't really start until around midnight. We were planning on heading down around then_."

"No," Gibbs stated. "Get there early, watch people as they come in. I want to get IDs on as many of the guests as possible. Make it 2200."

"_Boss, we're going to look lame if we're downstairs at 2200_," DiNozzo protested. "_How about a compromise? 2330?_"

"DiNozzo."

"_Okay, fine, 2300. We'll still see everyone_." McGee saw the glare on Gibbs' face, and was glad for Tony and Ziva that they were a few hundred miles away. "_As far as the plan for tonight, we're keeping it simple. Ziva will approach Zajac with a business offer. We'll get him away from the party and take him to the East Hampton Police Department. I already spoke with the chief. He's actually a local. We used to play ball together growing up—_"

"The point, DiNozzo?"

"_Sorry, Boss. Chief Hebdon agreed to let us use their interrogation room. Ziva and I checked it out; they have state-of-the art recording equipment, which is really no surprise when you consider how much East Hampton collects in taxes._"

"You doing the interrogation?" Gibbs asked, cutting off what was bound to be another one of DiNozzo's tangents.

"_Uh, hadn't decided yet, Boss. We'll see what kind of guy Zajac is, figure out what form of interrogation he'll be most responsive to, but either way, shouldn't be too difficult to send the feed to MTAC_." McGee saw Gibbs nod his head absently in approval of DiNozzo's statement.

"Good plan, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, surprising McGee. Usually he only offered praise when he felt his agents needed it, which wasn't often; they had all learned in the years they had worked with him that if he wasn't being critical of their work, he approved of it. "Think of this as practice for when you get your own team." McGee blinked in surprise at the words, and he could tell by the sharp intake of breath that was obviously from Abby that she was just as taken aback as he was. Looking back, he was wondering why he hadn't been able to see the clues. Tony had been more independent the last couple of years, following up on leads without running them by Gibbs, learning Arabic when he thought nobody was paying attention, sitting in on some of Ziva's MTAC conferences. At the time, McGee had thought it was just DiNozzo's way of inserting himself into Ziva's life, but now… Now he knew it was about something bigger than that.

He just wondered if Ziva knew what Tony was doing.

---

Tony DiNozzo grumbled as he fumbled with his cufflinks. _Trust good 'ole Dad to be the one guy in the Hamptons to host a black-tie event_. The mission would have been so much simpler if the old man was content with the beach-party type gatherings typical of the area.

_Of course, formal has its advantages as well_, he thought, his cuff-links forgotten as Ziva re-entered the room. The low-cut dress was vaguely reminiscent of the one Vesper Lynd wore in the casino scene of the more-recent _Casino Royale_, but Eva Green had nothing on Ziva David in an evening gown. He was briefly distracted by thoughts of playing James Bond, and wondered if the McGeek could make him a watch that contained a wire garrote or a pair of suspenders with a grappling cord. Or maybe he could just order a martini shaken, not stirred. He knew he must have drifted off into his daydreams when he saw Ziva looking at him with an amused expression on his face. "Where'd you go?" he finally asked.

"I was placing cameras and microphones throughout the estate," she replied, still sounding amused. "As well as a solex agitator and industrial laser cannon."

He grinned at the evidence that Ziva had been paying a lot more attention to his James Bond movies than she claimed. "Anyone see you?"

She shook her head. "I was discreet." She walked over to him and began fastening his cuff links for him. That complete, she reached for his bowtie and expertly tied that.

"Where would I be without you?" he joked.

"Standing half-naked in the guestroom of your father's East Hampton estate," she answered matter-of-factly. He chuckled at the knowing smile on her face.

He lightly touched the necklace he had given her the evening before. "Looks good," he said, "although maybe we should have grabbed the camera necklace from Abby before we left."

"I like this one," she replied with a smile. "Besides," she said as she reached into her bag and pulled out a small box, which he instantly recognized as the carrying case for a camera lapel pin and its recorder. "We already have a camera."

"Wow," he said with a laugh as she affixed the gold Ohio State 'Block O' to his jacket. "Haven't seen this in awhile."

"About two years," she replied. He smiled thinly, trying not to think about the similarities: undercover—or _somewhat_ undercover—missions, acting like people they weren't, mixing their personal and professional lives so completely that they couldn't tell one from the other.

Some of their best moments as a couple—including_ becoming_ a couple—happened while they were working.

"But I thought this just recorded, not transmitted," he said, bringing himself back to the moment. Ziva smirked.

"Abby fixed it," she informed him.

"Of course she did," he said with a grin. "Abby can fix anything. Do they talk to us, or is this a one-way conversation?"

"Strictly one-way," she said. A smirk crossed her features. "You do not have to worry about Gibbs' voice in your ear."

"Just in my head," he muttered. She leaned forward to kiss him.

"You are more than qualified to run this mission. And a team." He smirked.

"Since when did I run _anything_ when you were around? I don't even get to fold my own _socks_ the way I want to."

"That is because you do not so much fold them as stuff them all in a drawer."

"That's because they're _socks!_"

She smiled and kissed him again. "It is almost 2300." She didn't give him a chance to say anything to that before she pulled out her cell phone and dialed a familiar number. "Hello, Gibbs," she said, still looking at Tony. "We are about to begin."


	27. Chapter 27

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 27**

* * *

Special Agent Timothy McGee was trying to do his work, but a certain hyperactive and overly-caffeinated forensic scientist in pigtails and a short plaid skirt was making that difficult.

"Quentin Tarantino and Johnny Depp!" she exclaimed as she recognized two more big names visiting from Hollywood, without having to use the facial recognition program she transferred to one of the auxiliary MTAC computers. She turned to McGee, her face excited. "Do you think they're going to do a movie together? That would be freaky gruesome. I mean, all of Tarantino's movies are so awesomely violent, and Johnny Depp is scary in his own right, and—"

"When did you become such a film aficionado?" McGee interrupted. He didn't really care about the answer; he just wanted to stop the endless excited monologue about movie deals she assumed—probably correctly—were going on that evening. In the house where Anthony DiNozzo was raised. He didn't know if that changed his perception of his senior field agent or not, but even as someone who had his fifteen minutes of fame as a best-selling novelist, he was impressed.

"Oh, please, Timmy," Abby scoffed. "I've been working with Tony for ten years. That would be pretty sad if I didn't learn _something_."

"Please tell me you two have something other than next year's movie line-up," Gibbs said suddenly from behind them, making McGee jump in surprise, not having realized that he was standing there. Abby just smiled sweetly.

"Don't be silly, Gibbs," she said brightly. "It takes longer than a year to make a movie. We're talking about the line-up for the year after next. Or maybe the year after that, depending."

"Abs."

"Haven't seen anyone yet who would be a candidate for our 'Most Wanted' wall," she said, turning back to her computer. "Couple of shady people, but we're talking shady like cheated the government out of a couple hundred thousand dollars in taxes, not shady like they're going to kill you and your loved ones while you sleep."

Gibbs gave her his usual exasperated look, but didn't comment further. "McGee," he barked.

"Uh, been working on Zajac's known associates," he said quickly. With a few quick keystrokes, the display on his monitor changed to three photos, each looking like it was taken during surveillance. "Hendrik Pretorius, Nurlan Satylgan, and Dieter Steiger; contacts in South Africa, Russia, and Columbia, respectively." He frowned slightly, realizing just how lame that was. How had Abby convinced him to look into Zajac's associates on the off-chance that they attend the party, while she got to run the facial recognition on the guest? He didn't even need to ask the question to know the answer: she had asked, and McGee, just like every guy - well, every _person_ - Abby surrounded herself with, he'd do whatever she wanted. He wondered how she managed to get so many people wrapped around her little finger. "Uh, if any of them were invited to the party, they haven't arrived yet. At least, Tony has seen them yet."

Gibbs nodded. "Keep on it," he ordered. He turned back to face the large main screen in MTAC, the one displaying everything coming from DiNozzo's camera as it was happening, and took another sip of coffee to cover up his sigh. He spent several long minutes staring at that screen, not moving except to occasionally bring his cup to his mouth, not even hearing the conversation between his senior field agent and Mossad liaison coming in through the speakers, or the dull roar of the multitude of agents from various agencies packed into MTAC to watch the show. There was nothing suspicious about the people DiNozzo saw while he was standing by the door, nor from the dance floor after Ziva dragged him to a place in the house where jazz music could be heard, distorted by the speakers by the time it reached MTAC. Gibbs didn't know if it was the fact that DiNozzo was running the mission with only Ziva for back-up and just about no preparation, or if it was something else entirely, but something wasn't right. He could feel it in his gut.

---

Tony DiNozzo was standing near the bottom of the stairs in the foyer. He found the position about twenty minutes before and was doing his best to stay there as long as was discreet; it had a good view of the door and most of the room, with the added advantage of looking completely natural and still allowing him to mingle—which seemed to mean 'accept clasps on the shoulder from random Hollywood-types and the people who managed their finances'—without looking awkward.

He was caught off-guard by the sudden sensation of someone's hands on his arm, followed immediately by a kiss on his cheek. "Zajac is not yet here," Ziva murmured into his ear before lowering her heels back to the floor. He looked over to see her smiling wryly at him. "And try to smile," she chastised playfully as she handed him a drink—coke, no rum, from the taste of it. "You are at a party."

He chuckled as he wove his free arm around her waist. "It's a little hard to relax when I'm looking for an international arms dealer who might have arranged to have a Navy physician abducted, Sweetcheeks."

She nodded at that as she glanced around the room in a manner that looked completely natural. "I believe I now understand how a fifteen-year-old boy would meet a coke-ette," she said, sounding amused. He almost snorted the sip he just took.

"Rockette," he said when he recovered. "But you knew that."

She nodded again, her hand slipping down his arm until she had his in hers and began leading him more into the room, toward where a jazz quartet was playing softly in front of a dance floor. Keeping the camera's view unobstructed while dancing was difficult, but Ziva was good at improvising. "So how many of these guests do you know?"

"Well, I certainly recognize Christie Brinkley," he joked. "_Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue_ cover in 1979, 1980, _and_ 1981—some of my formative years."

"You turned eight in 1979," she pointed out.

"I'm not getting your point."

She arched an eyebrow before letting that go. "And I was talking about people you actually _know_, not just have seen on a magazine or in a movie."

"You see any washed-out teenage movie stars from the early 80's?" he asked, his voice carrying the forced-lightness it always had when talking about something he didn't want to be talking about. "'Cause child actors in the 70's were still too young to be partying in the Hamptons, and the last time I partied in the Hamptons, I was sixteen—no, nineteen. Summer between freshman and sophomore year of college. Had two weeks at the estate with Dad and whatever-her-name-was. Spent most of it getting drunk and partying _not_ at the estate with Dad and whatever-her-name-was." He lapsed into silence, and when he spoke again, his voice was more serious. "Yeah," he said softly. "Hollywood-types come and go. Most of the crowd is pretty much the same as it always was—heirs of old family fortunes, heirs of _new_ family fortunes, a few who legitimately worked to earn their money."

"Like your father?"

He chuckled slightly as he shook his head. "My father may have worked hard, and certainly added a lot to what he started with, but his isn't exactly a rags-to-riches story." He was quiet for a minute, his eyes still scanning the room, seeing a party similar to the current one, but more than thirty years before. "It takes money to make money, and there are few easier ways of getting money than marrying into it."

"Your mother," she said. Tracing where all of Alessandro DiNozzo's riches came from would have been simple for something with her background and contacts, but it had never been necessary. After preparing a dossier on Gibbs' team for Ari, she knew that Tony came from money, but hadn't had the time or the interest to trace it further than that. It had nothing to do with the case; after she joined the team, she knew it had nothing to do with the man.

He nodded, then gave her a wide, cheesy grin, adopting a thick British accent before saying, "The Paddingtons are a, as the Americans would say, high society family. It is only because of the Paddington fortune that there is a DiNozzo fortune."

She smiled and was about to say something in response, but her expression changed as she saw something over Tony's shoulder. "Tony," she murmured. "Zajac is here."

His nod was so small it was practically imperceptible as he pulled her closer, his mouth right by her ear. "Just like we talked about," he murmured. "I'll see you in a few minutes." She nodded at that, pulling away to briefly brush her lips against his. With another smile, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.


	28. Chapter 28

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 28**

* * *

Mossad Officer Ziva David knew how to make an entrance, but she also knew how to blend in, which was why she didn't take it personally when she didn't notice any heads turning as she made her way through the crowd of well-dressed people milling around the DiNozzo estate. She had made a career out of being invisible, whether that was while chasing down thugs left unemployed at the fall of the Soviet empire, tailing a suspect down the streets of DC, or mingling at a gathering of some of America's richest and most famous in their own backyard.

She smiled at a waiter as she accepted a glass of champagne from his tray, having no intention at all to drink it, as she studied her surroundings. She brought the champagne flute to her mouth to hide her smirk as Niko Zajac came into view. Had this been one of Tony's movies, his Eastern European features would have made him instantly recognizable as the villain; the impeccably tailored tuxedo and scar that ran from the corner of his eye almost to the corner of his mouth did nothing to change that perception. The bodyguards were just as obvious—three thickly-built men with likely steroid use and no necks standing equidistance from Zajac, their eyes never resting on one person long, not even the scantily-clad models and actresses milling around.

Zajac glanced over in her direction, his eyebrows raising slightly at her frank gaze. She brought the flute to her lips again, pretending to drink as she smirked in his direction. He smiled—an expression that seemed to lack any mirth whatsoever—which she took as an invitation to approach. He made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring appreciatively at her body as she sashayed toward him.

"Mr. Zajac," she greeted as she trailed her hand down his forearms, trading her accent for one closer to that of someone from Latin America. One of the bodyguards stepped closer; Zajac waved him off with an annoyed look on his face.

"Do I know you?" he asked. Even his voice would have fit into the typecast role of the Cold War era villain, low and dangerous-sounding with his Russian accent.

"No," she replied, an amused expression on her face, "but I know you. Your reputation precedes you."

"And what reputation is that?"

"That you are someone who can obtain…merchandise of interest to my employers."

"That depends," he replied, his voice no less ominous with the amused tone it now contained, "on what business your employers are in."

She cocked an eyebrow at that. "Mr. Zajac," she replied, her tone almost mocking, "you should know better than to ask those questions."

He studied her intently as he took a slow drink of the clear liquid in his glass. "I may be able to get you what you need," he finally said. His eyes left hers to frown at something over her shoulder; she could tell without looking that Tony was paying to much attention to their conversation while trying to be discreet. It took all of her willpower not to frown at his over-protectiveness. Zajac returned his gaze to her. "You can contact one of my associates. You would know how to find them, I assume."

"Of course," she replied, annoyed. "But if I wanted to deal with one of your associates, I would have done so already."

He glanced around them. "This is not the best place," he finally said. "Meet me tomorrow—"

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Zajac," she interrupted, "and my employers are willing to pay a price that will be reflective of that."

He hesitated at that before nodding slightly. "Let us take this outside," he said, gesturing toward a back door from the estate. She nodded in reply as she began walking to it, Zajac's hand resting lightly on the small of her back. She saw in her peripheral vision the way he held his hand in the air to stop his bodyguards from following them outside.

They headed toward a section of the backyard draped in shadows and isolated from the other people mingling outside. "What guarantee do I have that your employers are serious?" he asked once sure that they were free from curious ears.

"Would a name help?" she asked mildly.

"That depends on the name," he replied. She smiled at that.

"Miguel Pulido Gamboa," she said slowly, naming one of Colombia's main drug lords. She smirked as he quirked an eyebrow. "How is that one?"

"Acceptable," he replied. "What, exactly, is it that _Senor_ Pulido needs?"

"My employer has some…business rivals, who are threatening to make it a bit more difficult for him to conduct business."

"And he would like some negative reinforcement for those threats." She smiled.

"I believe we are on the same page here, Mr. Zajac." She held his gaze for a long moment. "The particulars are in my vehicle. I prefer to be mobile while discussing business. It helps discourage dishonest businessmen."

He hesitated at that, and she could practically see him weighing the pros and cons of going along with her demands. In the end, the chance to do business with a man of Pulido Gamboa's reputation won out. "Very well," he said. She nodded, a slightly victorious smile on her face, and turned to head back through the house without another word, trusting that he was following closely behind her. She left the champagne flute on a waiter's tray without breaking stride.

Just as arranged, the limo was idling right in front of the estate. As Ziva stepped through the doors of the estate, Tony stepped out of the driver's seat, crossing behind the car to open the door for her. She barely gave him a second glance as she stepped in, Zajac close behind.

They had been driving for about two minutes before Zajac cleared his throat, obviously ready to discuss what her employer would be needing. "Would you like a drink?" Ziva asked instead, ignoring his impatience. "In anticipation of your cooperation, I have a bottle of your favorite vodka very well chilled." She reached to a freezer under the seat next to her and pulled out a frosted clear bottle for him to see.

"I would prefer to get down to business," the arms dealer replied, his voice again cold. "I am afraid my bodyguards will start to worry if I am not returned soon, and you do not want to see them worried."

"We will get to our business when I am ready," she replied, her tone sharp. She paused and smiled slightly, as if embarrassed that she had let her hard edge as a Latin American security consultant show. She could tell by the blink and flat look on Zajac's face that the 'slip' had made its point. "First, a toast. Then, business."

"Very well," he replied, trying to make it appear that his acquiesce was anything but intimidation at the ideas of what she could do to him. The type of woman she was portraying had a reputation to rival that of a trained Mossad interrogator. He frowned as he realized that the car was no longer moving. "Why are we stopped?" he asked.

"Because it's time for a friendly chat, Mr. Zajac," Tony replied as he opened the door. He smiled as he pulled out his credentials. "NCIS. We have a few questions for you."

A panicked look appeared on the arms dealer's face as he spun, clearly trying to figure out how to gain the advantage. He realized he was caught when he came face-to-barrel with the handgun Tony had left for Ziva between the seat cushions. "Not a good idea, Mr. Zajac," she replied, no longer hiding her true accent. "I suggest you cooperate."

---

DiNozzo hung up the phone in the observation bay of the East Hampton Police Department interrogation room, having just talked to Gibbs and probably half of the audience in MTAC about what they have discovered thus far and how they should precede. As always happened when NCIS, FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security were all involved, nobody could agree on anything.

He returned his attention to the two-way mirror and the 'friendly chat' that was unfolding on the other side of it. He and Ziva had left Zajac sweating it out in there for over an hour as they discussed—argued—about who should do what, and as usual, Ziva won. He had to admit, it was quite intimidating to watch a beautiful and deadly woman in an evening gown conduct an interrogation.

She had pulled out the Mossad card early, calmly implying that if he cooperated, NCIS wouldn't be turning him over to the Israelis for his ties to a series of recent Palestinian bombings. DiNozzo had no idea if Zajac had anything to do with those, and no idea how Ziva would know if he had, but the arms dealer instantly became even more nervous at the threat, leaving Tony to believe that Zajac knew exactly how Mossad treated enemies of the State of Israel. Apparently, the Belarusian decided to take his chances with the American system, because he was singing like the proverbial canary.

"And the recent abduction of Dr. Alyse Aachen from outside Kabul?" Ziva pressed. Zajac blinked in confusion.

"I do not know what you are talking about," he replied, his voice a bit shaky. DiNozzo couldn't see the look on Ziva's face, but judging from the quick look of fear across Zajac's face, he figured it wasn't pretty. "I am not lying to you!" he insisted. "I told you, I gave them money, and nothing else. What they did with it was their business!"

"That does not sound like a very beneficial agreement for you," Ziva said calmly, returning to her seat. "There was more to it."

Zajac took a deep breath and nodded slightly. "I would give them money," he said, "and they would use that to buy weapons and supplies from one of my associates."

"But after your associates had taken their cuts, you are losing money," Ziva replied. Zajac smirked.

"War is profitable," he replied. "It is in my best interest to keep it going as long as possible." DiNozzo silently nodded his understanding; by giving the Taliban money to buy what they would need, he was keeping the war going and growing his reputation. The losses from his associates were nothing in the long run.

Ziva silently slid a piece of paper and pen across the table to Zajac. "The names of your Taliban contacts," she said coldly. He stared at it for a long minute.

"And what I get in return?" he finally asked.

"I will recommend that the Americans hold you themselves, instead of turning you over to one of the many nations who would like their chance with you," she replied. "My superiors in Mossad will be disappointed, but I believe they would understand." He continued to stare at the pen and paper until he reluctantly picked them up.

"You are wasting your time," he said as he wrote. "These men believe that they know the way their Allah wanted the universe to be run. They do not have your physician. If they wanted a doctor, they would have purchased one from my associate." He glanced up at her. "And they would have gotten one who would not have insulted their fanatical Muslim views of the woman's place in the world. If you are serious about finding this Dr. Aachen, I suggest you look for someone who would benefit more from her capture than I."

---

Dr. Alyse Aachen opened her eyes tentatively, blinking against the brightness. She groaned as she lifted her arm to read her watch, trying to figure out how long she had been asleep this time. She lowered it, deciding it wasn't worth the effort.

She lifted her head from the pillow slowly, stopping to assess the pain before deciding it was worth it to try to sit up all the way. Her vision swam momentarily, but the motion didn't send her stomach rolling. She decided to look on the positive whenever she could—adding more stress to the situation wasn't going to be helping her headaches any.

"Oh, good. You're awake." She rolled her eyes slightly as she turned her head to her captor. "You've been sleeping a lot."

"I needed my rest," she said sarcastically. "Being held against my will takes a lot out of me."

He smirked at her response before holding up a plastic grocery bag. "I brought you food from the mess," he said. She accepted it, making a face at the fried chicken fingers and French fries, but didn't voice her complaints, figuring something was better than nothing. He pulled up a chair, turning it backwards before sitting, resting his arms on the back. "So," he said conversationally, "what would your husband do to get you back?"

She glared. "Well, he was a scout sniper, and once a Marine, always a Marine, so do you _really_ want an honest answer to that?"

He laughed at her response. "You sure are feisty, aren't you, Doc? No wonder he writes you into all his novels—you make a great character." His voice became serious. "No, seriously. How much?"

"How much _what_?"

"How much are you worth to your husband?" he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "And be honest."

"Honestly? Everything," she replied. She smirked. "But they're going to catch you before you see a single penny."


	29. Chapter 29

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 29**

_A/N: Just to catch you up on the story, if you've missed anything: Ezra Hardoon, a Mossad operative undercover in Afghanistan who recently had an unplanned several week stay in the American detainee system, unfortunately didn't know anything about the abduction of Dr. Alyse Aachen or who was been behind it. He did give a name, Niko Zajac, of a Belarusian bad guy who had been financing Taliban cells in the Kabul area and therefore might know something about Dr. Aachen. After discovering that Zajac was on the guest list for an off-season party in the Hamptons at Alessandro DiNozzo's estate, Tony and Ziva wrangled an invitation to the party, during which they apprehended and questioned Zajac (with Gibbs, McGee, Abby, and half of the federal agents in the DC area watching from MTAC), who was adament that his contacts had nothing to do with Dr. Aachen's abduction. _

_

* * *

_

It was dawn by the time Tony and Ziva returned to the DiNozzo estate. After more 'chatting' with Zajac, they analyzed the interrogation and the intel they received with the crowd in MTAC, an ordeal that took longer than it should have, on account of the number of different agencies who all claimed that the case was theirs. In the end, they had left the arms dealer in the custody of the East Hampton Police Department until a representative from the Homeland Security New York office could arrive and deal with him from there. After that, well, they had no idea what would happen to him, and neither particularly cared.

The limo, rented from the service Alessandro DiNozzo had on retainer, was returned, and the few extra hundreds that Tony stuffed into the front pocket of the guy manning the desk ensured that he wouldn't be talking to anybody about who had borrowed one of their vehicles or the fact that they did so without one of their drivers, which went directly against their policy. After that, Tony drove the Mustang back to the estate, neither speaking a word during the drive.

The last few guests were taking off when Tony swung the convertible into a parking place in his father's garage, their drunken laughter echoing over the lawns of the estate. "Are you coming upstairs?" Ziva finally asked as they entered the house from the door closest to Tony's old bedroom. He stopped and looked at her for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," he replied. He took her hand and pulled her closer to him, kissing her on the cheek. "Go to bed. You don't need to wait up for me." She frowned; she knew a dismissal when she heard one, but nodded her agreement.

"Tony," she said from a few steps up the staircase, stopping and turning to look back at him. He looked exhausted, even more so than she felt; his bowtie was untied, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, his hair in as much disarray as it could get. "We did well tonight. Everything went as it was supposed to."

"Except we didn't get what we came here for," he said sourly. "We still don't know where Dr. Aachen is or how the hell we're going to find her." She didn't say anything to that, knowing that when he was in one of those moods, that there was nothing to be said.

She had removed her jewelry and was about to get out of the dress when she changed her mind. She didn't care if he was being his usual obstinate self; she wasn't going to let him wallow in his pity. She resolutely marched from the guestroom, determined to find him, even if she had to search every room in the estate to do so.

He wasn't in any room on the second floor, but it didn't take her long to find him, standing in the first room down a short hallway from the foyer. Judging from the dark décor and large mahogany desk, he was standing in his father's study. She stood silently in the doorway, watching him as he stared at something she couldn't make out. "You should be in bed," he finally said, not turning to acknowledge her. "It's been a long couple of days."

"It has been just as long for you," she replied. She stepped into the room and glanced at the framed picture in his hands. She recognized Alessandro DiNozzo, although he was probably more than thirty years younger, his hair still black and his face relatively unlined. The blond woman at his side had a certain refined beauty, and just enough similarities to Tony that she was sure that this was his mother, which meant that the grinning towheaded boy between them had to be Tony. He turned to face her before she had the chance to cover up her wide grin.

"What?" he asked, sounding annoyed as he returned the picture to his father's desk with care. Her eyes followed the picture as he replaced it, giving her a quick glimpse at the picture it stood next to, one that appeared to be a teenager in a red basketball jersey. She lifted her eyes to see Tony looking expectantly at her and smiled again.

"You were very cute as a child," she said, still grinning.

"As a child?" he asked automatically, giving her his best 'aren't I charming?' grin. She just rolled her eyes before crossing the room to sit in one of the overstuffed brown leather chairs.

"Why are you so upset?" she asked a minute later, after it became obvious he wasn't going to say anything else. "We captured a man who had been financing terrorists. He confessed, and now he will be spending the rest of his life in an undisclosed location determined by Homeland Security. We have also ruled out one suspect in Dr. Aachen's abduction—"

He interrupted with a sharp, humorless laugh. "Leaving how many _thousands_ of possible suspects?"

"Tony…" Her voice trailed off as she realized that any possible argument she had would fall on deaf ears.

"I can't lose you again." She blinked in surprise at the words, as well as the low, serious tone he spoke them in. She didn't know what time he was talking about losing her—when she returned to Israel after Jenny's death, when she shut him out of her life when dealing with her father's illness, the brief time that they were 'broken up' for reasons she still didn't quite understand—but she had a feeling that she was beginning to understand why he was so upset at the outcome of that night's interrogation. She rose from her chair and stood in front of him, taking his face between his hands.

"You are not losing me," she said emphatically.

He shook his head as well as he could with her hands still on his jaw. "And what happens with Ruthven follows through on his threats to terminate your position and sends you to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what?"

She finally took a step back. "There is no use renting trouble."

"_Borrowing _trouble. Not renting. And solving this case—"

"Is still not a guarantee that Vance will give you Burley's position next year," she interrupted.

"Thanks," he said dryly. "_That_ makes me feel better."

She rolled her eyes again. "My point, Tony, is that nothing will change with us. No matter the outcome of this case or of either of our directors' decisions."

"I know you have some mad ninja skills thanks to your top-notch Mossad training to prepare you to go off on all these top-secret missions, but unless you've learned how to pull a Neo without me knowing, bullets don't respect Mossad training." She frowned at the statement, prompting him to explain. "_The Matrix_—the first one, because the other two parts of the trilogy just gave me a headache. Keanu Reeves is a disenchanted computer programmer who—." He stopped talking after she put her hand over his mouth.

"I do not care about your movie references," she snapped. "You need to stop beating yourself with this case. You are acting like it is the only thing that is standing between where you are now and getting your own team, and me working for NCIS or being reassigned to _Metsada_. It is not a winner-take-all case. You have almost ten years of service in NCIS; I am sure Vance will put all of that into consideration when deciding when and where you will get your own team." She paused, still looking at him intensely. "And when that happens, I will be there with you. You do not need to doubt that."

He sighed. "I know."

She studied him for a long minute before nodding, sure that he believed his words. "We should go to bed," she said. "You looked worn down." He smiled slightly but didn't bother correcting her as he allowed her to lead him from the study.

Upstairs in the guestroom, Tony helped Ziva out of her dress before they both collapsed into bed, all too aware that the next day would be beginning in a few shorts hours. Before falling asleep, Ziva curled up next to Tony, resting her head on his shoulder. He fisted his hand in her hair, tilting her head up to kiss her, long and deep. "I love you, you know," he murmured as they separated.

"I know," she replied. He chuckled as she returned her head to his shoulder, and seconds later, they had both fallen into exhausted slumber.

---

Probably in all the years that they had known each other, and definitely in the two years they were sleeping together, Tony had never gotten out of bed before Ziva, and a few hours after they collapsed into bed after questioning Zajac was no exception. "I am going for a run," she announced, instantly alert seconds after waking. He groaned.

"We just went to bed," he turned over in the bed to check the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, "three hours ago. Stay in bed."

She kissed him lightly before climbing out of the king-sized bed. "You do not have to join me."

He groaned again, tossing off the covers dramatically. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled. Knowing it would probably still be cold out there, he tossed the long-sleeved red Ohio State shirt he got on his most trip back to Columbus—going to a basketball game with Ziva a few months before—over his running pants before heading out.

They did an easy four miles through the 'neighborhood' before returning to the estate, joking lightly between the two of them about the most ridiculous outfits they saw at the party the evening before. They both kicked off their shoes just inside the back door before Tony playfully tugged at the zipper of Ziva's bright yellow windbreaker. "I can take off my own jacket, Tony," she protested with a laugh.

"I know," he replied, grinning. "But this is much more fun." He kissed her lightly as he pulled the slightly damp fabric off her shoulders. "Do you want breakfast?" She nodded as she followed him toward the kitchen.

Alessandro looked up from his morning newspaper as they entered, and his bland expression quickly darkened. He slowly folded the paper with purposeful movements that Tony recognized from his childhood, the 'You know I'm angry with you and I'm drawing it out' behavior. He raised his eyebrows, trying to figure out what exactly it was that he had done to leave his father in this mood. "Perhaps you two would like to explain to me why three large bodyguards spent two hours last night trying to find one of my guests," he said coldly.

Tony shrugged, trying not to let his father's anger get to him the way it always did as he was growing up. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why you're inviting arms dealers supporting terrorists to your party," he replied calmly. His father glowered before rising himself to his full height—two inches shorter than his son.

"I should have seen this coming," he said with a glare. "Only you could manage to do something so disrespectful."

And that was it for Tony. He slammed his hand down on the counter, hard enough to make Ziva flinch at how painful it must have been. "You want to do this now?" he asked angrily, his tone almost mocking, his head shaking slowly back and forth. "Okay, _Dad_, let's have it. After almost forty years of disappointing you, I bet you have a lot saved up, so go ahead and give it to me. I'm ready."


	30. Chapter 30

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 30**

* * *

Tony continued to glare across the kitchen at his father, aware in the back of his mind that standing there, in his running clothes, with Ziva only a few feet away, was not where he wanted to have this conversation. To be honest, he didn't want to have this conversation at all, which was probably why it was so long in the making.

"I opened my doors to you, allowed you to stay in my home and attend my party, and this is the thanks I get," Alessandro raged in his quietly-angry voice that had made Tony flinch as a child, the one that was laced with unspoken disappointments and failed expectations. It was that tone that made him, after watching a _Godfather_ movie or three, convinced that his father was in the mob, because only a Mafioso could be _that_ intimidating. "You embarrass me in front of countless clients and potential clients and business partners. You abduct one of my guests and take him God-knows-where to ask him God-knows-what about his business practices."

"Okay, first of all, that guest—," Tony began, his voice rising as his father's words made him more and more angry.

"That's what this was all along, wasn't it?" Alessandro interrupted him. "It wasn't about a weekend of leave to be spent in the Hamptons. You used our relationship to—"

"Relationship?" Tony cut him off with a bitter laugh. "_What_ relationship? Almost twenty years, and the only indication I've gotten that you're still alive is the occasional wedding invitation. How is that a _relationship?_"

Alessandro's tanned face flushed at the words. "I am your father—"

"No, _Dad_," Tony interrupted again, making the syllable sound like an insult. "A father is someone who actually pays attention to his child, not just uses him as a means to express his frustrations."

"I never once laid a hand on you, Anthony, and for you to imply otherwise just further proves my point about your level of disrespect for me as a father. And as a person."

"I never said you hit me," Tony countered. "Doesn't mean you ever paid attention to me, though."

"Your mother gave you more than enough attention for the both of us."

Tony gave a bitter laugh to that. "A kid needs _both_ parents, _Dad_. And then she got sick and started self-medicating with whatever booze she could find laying around, and I had _none_. After she died, I was just an inconvenience to be dealt with. And so you had other people deal with it."

"You were out of control. You needed the discipline—"

Tony gave a bitter chuckle. "And you thought _military school_ was the best way to discipline me? You thought standing at attention and polishing shoes and learning how to salute would be the best way to make up for a lifetime of being ignored by my father?" He let that sink in for a second before he continued. "But you know what? Maybe you were right. Maybe that's what I needed, to learn how to do things by myself. Because I wouldn't have learned that if I stayed around _here_. I would've let you talk me into that damn job that we _both_ know I wasn't qualified for and would have _sucked_ at. My job may not be nearly as glamorous, and definitely doesn't pay as much, but it means something. So yeah, I'll admit it. I used you. A Navy doctor was kidnapped from her base in Afghanistan, and we found out that somebody who might have had something to do with that, who has made his fortune by shipping drugs and weapons around the world and keeping wars going, was going to be at your little soiree. And if putting that guy behind bars means that I'm going to cause you a little _embarrassment_, I'm okay with that."

He was aware that that was probably ten times the number of words he had spoken to his father at one time since he left for military school, but everything he said needed to be said, and he didn't regret it. If that meant that his father ordered them out of his house and never spoke to him again after this, well, it wasn't as if he was really losing anything. When the silence stretched on, he glanced over to Ziva, trying to see if he could gauge her reaction. Her expression was as unreadable as always, but she inched her hand over, resting her fingers on his, the contact so light he wasn't completely sure it was there. Somehow, knowing that she was still there was enough, giving him the strength to turn back to his father with a new determination.

Alessandro was still staring at him with an intense and angry expression on his face. "I hope you got everything you came here for," he said coldly before turning and purposefully walking out of the kitchen.

"And I hope you have a good six to twelve months with Tatyana," Tony muttered at his back. He saw the hitch in his father's step as the older man processed the words and debated responding to them before deciding it wasn't worth the effort and continuing on his way. Tony blinked as his father turned the corner out of view, aware in the back of his mind that that was that, that he would never have any sort of relationship, meaningful or otherwise, with his father again.

He was barely aware of the fingers placed against his jaw, but turned his head toward Ziva obligingly. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly before pulling away, a small but knowing smile on her face as she lowered her heels back to the floor, returning her attention to the breakfast that they had originally come into the kitchen for.

He smiled at the back of her head, again grateful that, even though she hadn't said anything and hadn't really done anything, that she was there for him during his one and only real confrontation with his father. The strange thing was, even after getting all of that off of his chest, he wasn't sure if anything had changed at all.

---

Ziva quietly closed the door to the guestroom behind her as she walked through it. After the words he and his father had spoken to each other in the kitchen, Tony had been in one of his moods, the one where he turned everything into an exaggerated joke in an effort to make it look like he wasn't bothered by what had just happened. She had put up with that for just about as long as necessary—the amount of time it took her to pack her bag—before giving him a quick kiss and leaving him to his thoughts, whatever those might be. She was already calculating the amount of damage control she would have to do when they returned to DC. Remembering her own reactions to confrontations with _her_ father a year and a half before, it might be a lot.

Once she was standing out the hallway, though, she realized she hadn't completely thought this through. Knowing that they had a long drive in front of them, and not knowing how much longer he would be lost in his thoughts, she didn't want to go out to the carport and sit in the Mustang, and it was still a little bit too cold out for her to enjoy a leisurely stroll around the estate's grounds. That left an exploration of the estate, most of which she had seen already, from planting the small cameras and microphones as well as her search for Tony before going to bed that morning.

There was one room on the first floor she hadn't seen, at the end of the hallway, a sunroom with walls of glass, showcasing one large item in the middle of the room, and she knew why Tony hadn't wandered here with her when he gave her a quick tour of the estate shortly after they arrived. She closed her eyes as she remembered a conversation from years before, the memory so sharp she could almost feel the cold air and smell the burnt paper and gunpowder.

_"My mother used to make me take piano lessons from this woman who would hit my hands with a ruler when I made a mistake."_

_"Were you any good?"_

_"Yeah… she was."_

She opened her eyes to again find herself in that sunroom, the bright day outside belying the early spring chill she felt on their run only a few hours before, the light practically illuminating the rich wood of the parlor grand piano. She lifted the cover over the keys and pressed a few randomly. Her eyebrows rose when she realized that it was still in tune; someone was keeping this piano in prime condition. She narrowed her eyes and smiled slightly.

The piano bench was filled with loose sheets of music, some of which she recognized, several unfamiliar pieces from familiar composers, and a few so unknown to her and the rest of the world that the notes were hand-written on score paper. She scanned through one quickly before putting it on the music stand and taking a seat on the piano bench.

She had always done well at piano recitals and competitions growing up, but her skill was at the memorized pieces—a near-eidetic memory went a long way when it came to piano playing. Her weakness was in sight-reading new music, a weakness her mother tried to correct, with only minimal results. So now, sitting in Tony's childhood home at the piano his mother likely played, she studied the notes on the paper, trying to get a feel for the rhythm before she began. Her eyes drifted toward the upper left corner of the first page for some hints at tempo, and her eyebrows rose again as she saw the name of the composer: Emma P. DiNozzo, the capital letters exaggerated dramatically in a way that was familiar enough to make her smile.

She began playing the piece, which she was able to tell quickly had been amateurly written; although the chords were solid and intervals well thought out, some of the phrases were slightly awkward, coming to unusual conclusions. Still, she continued playing, her fingers picking up the pace as they got a better feel for the music.

"It's been a long time since I've heard that." Her hands stilled over the keyboard as she spun toward the doorway, where Alessandro DiNozzo was standing, unsure of whether he should enter or not. Finally, he decided on yes, coming in a few feet before stopping again. "Nobody has played that piano in years."

"It is in beautiful condition," Ziva replied slowly, unsure of what she should say after Tony's confrontation with him just an hour before; for that matter, she was unsure of why he was even talking to her after said confrontation.

"I get it tuned every six months," Alessandro said, his eyes fixed on the piano, "and every time, I wonder why; it never gets played. But Emma had very strict rules about how her piano was taken care of."

"Tony's mother," she stated unnecessarily.

"Yes." He frowned slightly, as if remembering something that was both pleasant and painful at the same time. "I was in London to work at the Paddington firm after I graduated from college, to get some experience and do some networking before setting out on my own. Old Man Paddington had me over for dinner one evening. I was so nervous about making a good impression that I arrived twenty minutes early, when Emma was in the midst of practicing for her next recital, and I just stood there and watched her play and listened to the music. She was an amazing musician, studied music performance in Salzburg and was hoping to be given an invitation to audition for the London Philharmonic. Instead, she found herself moving to New York with me shortly after we got married, nine months after we met." His eyes got a faraway to them as his mind traveled back in time through the years, and after the time she had spent with his son, she knew better than to interrupt his thoughts by talking. "She always doted on Tony," he said when he resumed speaking. She quirked an eyebrow; that was the first time she had heard him refer to his son as anything other than 'Anthony'. "She always wanted a large family, but after he was born, we had a hard time getting pregnant again. Looking back, I wonder if it was the cancer, but back than, we just thought it wasn't meant to be, and that made her dote on him all the more." A slight smile tugged on his lips. "She was a bit eccentric at times, but she really did love him, and he her. But then she got sick…" He cleared his throat, and Ziva could see just how hard this was for him, even decades after the fact. "She didn't have the best coping skills, and neither did I, and Tony was just left in the middle. And then she died, and I was left with a ten-year-old I didn't know what to do with. In retrospect, maybe boarding school wasn't the best idea. I had this idea of the man I wanted him to become, but he just had so much of Emma of him, and I didn't know what to make of that."

"He is a good man," Ziva finally said, her eyes still not leaving those of the older man in front of her. "He is very caring, but does not always know how to show it. He is very good at his job, because he works hard and does not give up until the case is solved and he is satisfied."

"I never realized he was so angry at me," Alessandro murmured to himself. Ziva frowned at those words; how could he _not_ know? How could he have thought decades of stilted conversations and lack of communication were anything else? She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. The two remained silent for several long minutes before he cleared his throat again. "Having this piano sitting here unused seems like a waste of a perfectly good instrument. If you want it, it's yours."

She blinked in surprise before chuckling low in her throat, shaking her head. She recognized the offer for what it was, an awkward attempt to mend bridges from a man who didn't know any other way to do so, but it just wasn't practical. "Thank you for the offer, but there is not enough space in my apartment for a grand piano." It was tight enough with the upright; she couldn't imagine being able to walk around in the space with anything larger.

"Well, if you change your mind, or move into a larger place, the offer will still stand," he replied with a smile that wasn't unkind, and she found herself smiling in reply.

"Hey, Sweetcheeks, time to hit the road." Both Ziva and Alessandro turned to face the door, where Tony just appeared, his duffle bag on one shoulder and the garment bag with their evening clothes on the other, his phone in his hand. He barely gave his father a passing glance, his attention focused on the woman on the piano bench. "Boss got the bat signal. Let's go."


	31. Chapter 31

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 31**

_A/N: To bring you up to speed: after Dr. Alyse Aachen's abduction, Ziva and Tony contacted Mossad Officer Raanan Thal, a control officer in Afghanistan. She didn't know anything about a Navy physician being kidnapped, but she promised to share any intel she got if NCIS would help locate and release one of her operatives, Ezra Hardoon, who had been taken prisoner while he was undercover within the Taliban. They did locate him (and send him back to Tel Aviv after questioning), but he didn't know anything about Dr. Aachen, either. He gave them the name Niko Zajac, an international bad guy who had been financing Taliban cells around Kabul and might know what was going on. Zajac was currently in the Hamptons, about to attend a party hosted by the father of none other than the Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, prompting Tony and Ziva to go undercover-ish to said party to apprehend and question Zajac. Unfortunately, Zajac proved to be as clueless about Dr. Aachen as everyone else had been, insisting that there was no way his contacts in the Taliban would be interested in a female physician and that they were barking up the wrong tree (and after Tony's father realized that they were only staying with him to interrogate one of his guests, there was a confrontation between him and his son that was decades in the making). Tony just received word that Gibbs got a new lead, which is where we are now. This chapter takes place pretty much concurrently with the previous one._

_Oh, and there's some profanity in this chapter. Just two or so words, but it is there. Don't say I didn't warn you._

* * *

Lyndi Crenshaw paused just inside her office door to hang up her coat and scarf. It was getting to be spring in DC, that incredibly annoying time when the weather changed unpredictably on a daily basis. Yesterday the sun had broken out of the clouds and helped the mercury rise above sixty degrees; today, she had woken to a gray and overcast sky that seemed to encourage staying in bed and forgetting about going into work.

As if she had that option. One didn't rise to her position in the publishing world by allowing the weather to dictate whether or not she should go to work.

"Yvette!" she called out to her new assistant, and within seconds, the petite blond rushed in. No, Lyndi saw as she glanced up, not blond anymore.

"The red looks good," she said with a nod. In the six months Yvette Schmidt had been working for her, she had changed her hair color no fewer than five times, but as she stuck to natural colors, Lyndi didn't see a problem with it. Besides, the recent Master's degree graduate was good at her job. "Did you get—"

"Your mail is on your desk, along with your Chai soy latte," Yvette jumped in. "John Kemp also called to tell you that he's just not going to be able to cut three hundred pages from his manuscript."

"Did you tell him that if he doesn't cut the pages, I'm going to cut them for him?" Lyndi asked as she pulled her chair up to her desk, taking a sip of her drink as she waited for her email to load. "Nobody wants to read a seven hundred page novel about a boy's coming of age. The idea's too overused to be _that_ interesting. Letting him keep four hundred is a stretch."

"I'll give him a call back and pass along the message," Yvette promised. She hesitated briefly at the door. "I was also wondering—"

"Next manuscript from a new author is all yours," Lyndi promised. Yvette beamed at the news as she all but bounced to her own desk. Lyndi had to chuckle, but she could still remember being that young and eager to make her mark on the publishing world.

She quickly deleted the bulk of her emails, most of which were interoffice memos about one new policy or another. A few of her authors had questions for her, most of which could be answered with a few quick sentences, but a few of which she had to mark to get back to later.

There was one email buried amidst the others that made her blood run cold. "Yvette!" she called out again, and just like before, the twenty-something appeared at her office door seemingly out of nowhere. "Get Timothy McGee on the phone," she ordered. A look of confusion crossed over Yvette's youthful features.

"Who?" she finally asked.

"Thom E. Gemcity," Lyndi replied, forgetting that Yvette hadn't been working for her the last time they had to deal with NCIS in anything other than a fictional capacity. "He's a special agent at NCIS. His numbers should be in his file." She gestured toward the file cabinets lining the wall. "He and Agent Gibbs are going to want to see this." Her eyes traveled back to the computer screen, where she reread the email for what seemed like the tenth time.

_ Dear Sir or Ma'am,_

_ We have Gregory Aachen's wife. She hasn't been hurt. Please tell Mr. Aachen that we'll release her for $5 million. _

---

Special Agent Timothy McGee stood and smiled politely as the elevator doors opened to reveal Lyndi Crenshaw with her official NCIS escort. "Thanks, Nickerson, I got it from here," he said as he headed toward the pair. Agent Nickerson nodded and headed back for the elevator, leaving the publisher and the special agent/novelist relatively alone in the squad room. "Right over here," McGee said, gesturing toward his desk.

"When we're done with this, Timothy, we need to have a talk about your next book." He grimaced, knowing what her next words would be. "Starting with, when am I going to see a draft?"

"Uh," he stammered.

"When we're done, McGee," Gibbs cut in as he rounded the corner from the back elevators. Hibbs nodded toward Lyndi. "Ms. Crenshaw."

"Special Agent L.J. Gibbs," she drawled with a grin. "No offense, but I hoped we wouldn't be working together again."

"Feeling's mutual," he replied before turning to McGee. "What've we got?"

"Uh, email arrived in Lyndi's in-box this morning," he said quickly, gesturing toward the plasma. "It was sent to the publishing house's customer service email account a few days ago. The account gets several hundred emails a day, so it took awhile to get to it. The intern who read the email didn't know what to do with it, sent it up the chain until someone sent it to Lyndi, who called me. Uh, us."

Gibbs scanned the short message before he turned to Crenshaw. "Why'd you call us? Doesn't say anything about the Navy."

"Because I've met Alyse and know that she's in the Navy, so I figured the Naval Criminal Investigative Service would be a good place to start," she said dryly. "Imagine my surprise when Timothy told me that you've already been working on the case. I would have thought a physician abducted from a secured base in Afghanistan would have been on ZNN by now. Especially since that physician also happens to be the wife of a New York Times best-selling author."

Gibbs shrugged a shoulder. "Not what Kirkan wanted." The two continued to stare at each other in a silent challenge before Crenshaw sighed slightly.

"I like Alyse," she finally said. "She's witty and smart and pleasant to talk to. And she's an inspiration for Peter. He submitted a few manuscripts that he wrote before he met her. They weren't bad, but there was just something missing, something that he found after Alyse came into his life. I'm afraid if something happens to her, that he'll lose that again."

"A Navy lieutenant's life is at stake," Gibbs all but growled at her. "This is about more than selling a couple of books."

"There's no reason why both ends can't be met," she replied. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors, and out stepped the novelist in question, looking like he had aged a year and hadn't slept more than an hour since his wife was abducted, his graying hair in disarray and dark circles under his eyes. Not that McGee felt much better; the late night in MTAC combined with Gibbs expecting him to still be in at work on time meant that he was far from well-rested. He glanced over at Lyndi and almost did a double take at the stern expression on her face as she watched the author approach.

"What took you so long?" she demanded. Kirkan frowned at the question.

"Traffic," he replied. "It's not easy to get here from Bethesda. What's going on?" His eyes went from one face to another before they settled on the plasma screen. He read the words silently, his face paling as he did so. "What the fuck?" he murmured.

"That was emailed to the publishing house," McGee explained.

"So Bryan was right," he said, his eyes still fixed on the screen and his voice still barely audible. "This is about me. She gets deployed to a warzone, and it turns out that she's only in danger because she's married to me. How the hell does that makes sense?" Nobody said anything for a long minute until McGee cleared his throat.

"Uh, Abby and I are going to work on tracing the email," he finally said. "It was bounced around the publishing house's servers for awhile, so it'll take time. The original email was sent from a free Yahoo! account, but if we find any information about the originating ISP…" He trailed off when he realized that everyone was staring at him with blank expressions on their faces. He sighed. "We should be able to find out where it came from," he finished. They continued to stare at him for another long silent minute before the other three all turned away as once.

"I don't have five million dollars," Kirkan finally said. "I mean, I can get it. We have some investments. I can sell the cars and the condo, I'll talk to my father-in-law and see what else can be liquidated…"

"Peter, I already talked it over with the board," Lyndi interrupted, her eyes filled with as much compassion as Lyndi Crenshaw could manage. McGee could practically see the gears turning in her head as she translated this into book sales. It wasn't that she was cold or cruel, or even calculating, just…good at her job. "We'll pay the ransom, as long as—"

"I go on ZNN and go public," he finished. He sighed and looked away, pushing a hand through his hair as he thought about it for a long moment. McGee wondered if anybody else understood the conflict; he wondered if he fully understood. Every anonymous writer had his or her own reasons for remaining anonymous, and it would be arrogant of him to think he knew what motivated Kirkan. Suddenly uncomfortable at the thought, he found himself looking everywhere but at Kirkan, his eyes falling on Gibbs. He blinked in surprise at the expression on his boss' face, and began to wonder if maybe it was a Marine thing. He had a feeling he would never know.

Kirkan turned to Gibbs, the conflict obvious in his eyes. "Gunny," he began, his voice hesitant. "If that was your wife out there, what would you do?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Not my call," he replied. Kirkan frowned.

"I don't want to do anything to jeopardize your investigation," he said, "and I'm a reporter, so I know how difficult reporters can make it for people to do their jobs. But at the same time, I can't take the chances that these bastards are serious. Not with Alyse's life on the line."

"No matter what you decide, we won't stop until we find your wife and get the people responsible," Gibbs promised his former Marine. "You have my word."

Kirkan nodded. "I know," he replied simply. He turned to Lyndi Crenshaw and sighed. "Okay," he said. "You have a deal. Just tell me when and where for the press conference, and I'll be there." His eyes returned to Gibbs, a new determination in those dark orbs. "And with any luck, we won't have to use a single penny."


	32. Chapter 32

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 32**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo was not in a good mood, and wasn't even trying to hide it.

He stabbed at the 'up' button on the elevator in the NCIS parking garage, quickly getting annoyed and pressing it several more times when the doors didn't automatically open. "Tony," Ziva said softly, stilling his hand with one of her own.

"Sorry," he muttered. The doors slid open a second later to admit the NCIS agent and Mossad liaison. He immediately collapsed against the wall of the metal box, closing his eyes briefly. It had been a banner few days, even for someone who was occasionally convinced that the world was out to get him. A trip to the Hamptons to chase down a lead that ended up going nowhere, a trip where nothing was accomplished other than the burning of the last cinders of his bridge with his father; a case that they were no closer to solving than they were when they first heard that Dr. Aachen was abducted; and now, another lead, which would probably lead them the exact same place as all their other leads—nowhere.

So he was in a bad mood. At least Ziva had enough sense not to try to get him to talk about it—yet. He was actually surprised about that; she had been strangely silent during the drive back from the Hamptons, spending a good deal of time texting on her phone, probably sending super-cryptic messages to her various contacts around the world. The thought of her sending a text message saying _the werewolf howls at midnight_ was enough to make him smile slightly.

Whatever the reasons for her silence, he was pretty sure the nagging about what was bothering him would start as soon as they walked into whichever one of their apartments they'd be spending the night. He loved her, but sometimes the incessant need to know everything he was thinking was a bit much.

"Probie," he snapped as soon as the doors opened at the squad room. He was strangely pleased that his tone caused the junior agent to look up from his work quickly, a slightly panicked look in his eyes. "What've we got?"

"Uh, Kirkan got this email," McGee replied, gesturing to the plasma screen. "Actually, that was sent to the publishing house a few days ago, just came to our attention when it arrived in Lyndi Crenshaw's inbox this morning. Abby and I traced the originating ISP using—"

"Am I going to understand this explanation?" DiNozzo interrupted. McGee frowned.

"Uh, probably not, Boss. Tony." He closed his eyes briefly at the slip, knowing full well he'd be hearing about it later. DiNozzo just smirked, but didn't say anything as he studied the brief message on the screen.

"There is not much there," Ziva finally said. Tony was aware of the fact that she was standing just a little bit close to be entirely professional, but Ziva never was one for personal space to begin with. "They do not even specify how to get the ransom to them or a deadline for delivery."

"Right," McGee agreed, standing to join the two of them in the staring at the email, as if by the three of them studied it long enough, the answers would jump out at them. "Ducky is analyzing it to do a psychological autopsy on the person who wrote it."

"What is there to analyze?" DiNozzo asked with a frown. "The whole thing's three lines long." McGee just shrugged. Tony continued to stare at the screen for a long minute before he shrugged a shoulder and turned away. "I'm gonna go check in with Abby," he said abruptly before turning and heading for the elevators. McGee watched him walk away before turning to Ziva.

"Why does he need to check in with Abby?" he asked, confused. "There isn't any forensics on this case."

Ziva smiled thinly as she turned to sit at her own desk. "He is worried that she will never speak to him again if he does not report everything that happened at the party."

"But she watched the whole thing as it was happening," McGee said, still confused. "She was in MTAC." Ziva chuckled and shook her head.

"And do you think Abby will be satisfied without hearing it from the donkey's mouth?"

"Horse's, Ziva. The expression is, hearing it from the horse's mouth." Her lips quirked into a smile.

"I think mine is more appropriate, yes?" she said teasingly. McGee was confused for a few seconds before he picked up on what she was saying. He grinned at her insinuation, but didn't say anything. "Is there anything you need me to follow up on?" Ziva asked, gesturing at the plasma screen as she got back to business.

"Uh, not at the moment," he replied. "Gibbs disappeared with Kirkan awhile ago, probably giving him a pep talk over coffee or something." She raised her eyebrows.

"Gibbs giving a pep talk?" she asked, only half joking. McGee shrugged as he returned his attention to his computer screen.

They continued to work in silence for a few minutes before McGee's curiosity got the better of him. "Did you know that Tony's trying to get his own team?" he blurted out abruptly. Ziva looked up at him, a slightly confused expression on his face, and it suddenly hit him that he wasn't the person she should be hearing this from. And then that expression was replaced with one that was akin to a smirk as she glanced back down at her computer screen.

"Believe it or not, McGee, Tony and I do speak outside of work," she said, her tone somewhere between mocking and serious. He felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment at the thought that she _didn't_ know what was going on with the man she had been dating for two years.

"Right," was the only thing he could think to say. There was a slightly thoughtful look on Ziva's face before she stood and crossed the bullpen to stand in front of his desk.

"Tim," she said gently, and he mentally cringed. She only used his first name when she was about to say something either especially serious or that he wouldn't like, and she only used that tone of voice when she was about to break big news—usually, news he wouldn't like. "Why do you think Tony is trying to get a new posting?"

"Uh, I guess I assumed he was just tired of working for Gibbs." She raised her eyebrows at that with a knowing expression on her face. "Oh," he said as realization hit him.

"He loves his job, Tim," she said. "It is because of me." Now he frowned.

"Are _you_ tired of working for Gibbs?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer. To his relief, she shook her head.

"I also love my job," she replied, "but my director does not. He has threatened multiple times to terminate the liaison position between Mossad and NCIS." She hesitated slightly, never all that comfortable with talking about her life outside of work, but continued speaking. "Neither Tony nor I is happy with the idea of him staying here while I am assigned elsewhere. And you know Tony is ready for his own team."

He did know that—he'd known it since DiNozzo _did_ have his own team, years ago. "So you're hoping that Tony will get a job somewhere that Director Ruthven will allow you to go," he stated, finally catching on. She nodded. "How long have you guys been working on this?"

She hesitated again before answering. "Tony spoke to Vance about the possibility of taking Agent Burley's position about a year ago."

"A _year?_" he asked incredulously. "You guys have been keeping this a secret for a _year_? Tony can't keep what he had for breakfast a secret for five minutes!"

"He is amazingly good at doing so when it is within his best interests," Ziva pointed out with a tight smile.

"True," he acknowledged, thinking about the year-long undercover romance with Dr. Jeanne Benoit. He knew better than to bring up one man's past girlfriends with his current one—especially when said current girlfriend was a trained killer with no fewer than three weapons within reach—so he kept quiet on that particular topic. He cleared his throat slightly. "So… You guys are going to be going to Bahrain?"

Ziva shrugged a shoulder before turning to return to her own desk, and when he saw her face again, he saw a brief flash of… something he had never seen on Ziva's face, before her usual nonchalant expression returned. Uncertainty? Worry? He didn't know what adjective would properly describe it. He bet Kirkan would have, though. There was reason why the man had four _New York Times_ bestsellers to his name. "Vance has not yet made his decision," she said, interrupting his train of thought. She glanced up again to meet his eyes and smiled slightly. "Do not worry, McGee," she said, her usual teasing lilt back in her voice. "We will be sure to give you a forwarding address before we go anywhere."

"Well, that's good to know," he said dryly, but with a smile. She grinned at him before focusing back on her computer, ready to get back to figuring out exactly where Dr. Alyse Aachen could be and who could have her.


	33. Chapter 33

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 33**

_A/N: Just in case you've forgotten what's happened in the last few chapters... Tony and Ziva were at his father's estate in East Hampton for a party after Mossad operative Ezra Hardoon told them that Niko Zajac, an international arms dealer/drug dealer/all-around bad guy who might be behind Dr. Aachen's abduction, would be at said party. He was at the party, but didn't have anything to do with their current case (I'm sure they got him on all sorts of other charges, though). While they were rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, Lyndi Crenshaw (of the episode "Rock Hollow") got an email from the kidnappers telling her that they had Dr. Alyse Aachen and would release her for $5 million. The publishing house offered to pay the ransom, in exchange for Peter Kirkan going public about the fact that his wife was being held hostage (nothing boosts sales like sympathetic publicity, I guess)._

* * *

Peter Kirkan tugged at the sleeves of his sports coat uncomfortably, wishing he were anywhere but the press room on the floor below Lyndi Crenshaw's office. In the three years since his first book hit the shelves, she had only been able to talk him into two public appearances, and he was still convinced that he was tricked to do the first. He was much more comfortable sitting in the press section of these things than waiting in the wings to go up to the podium. She tried to get him to wear a tie, too, but he would only cave so far. If his mother couldn't get him to wear a tie at his own wedding—it was a pretty casual wedding in a national park at sunset; a tie would have been ridiculous—there was no way his publisher was going to get him in one for a press conference he didn't want to be having in the first place.

"Pete." He turned toward the source of the sound, and did a double take in surprise. Almost against his will, he felt a smile tugging at his lips.

"Captain Ting," he drawled, "didn't know you still owned a uniform." As a surgeon, she wore civvies to work before changing into her scrubs, completely eliminating the need to wear a uniform everyday.

She rolled her eyes as she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her service blue uniform. "Bryan came by Reed with it after I finished rounds, told me to hurry up and get my ass changed so we aren't late. Made me take a day of emergency leave and miss the one interesting case I've had all month. That boy is rather bossy for a guy with only one leg."

He smiled thinly. "Where is 'that boy'?"

"He was parking the car." They both turned to face Bryan Lindemann as he approached from behind them, subtly resting his hand on the small of his girlfriend's back before dropping his arm. "She made me drop her off under the awning so she wouldn't have to wear her beret." He opened up his suit jacket to show the black beret tucked neatly into his belt. "And then she made me carry it."

"Well, you gotta be good for something," she replied before rising to her toes to kiss his cheek. "Go find us a place to sit. I need to talk to Pete."

"The abuse I put up with," he muttered as he turned and headed for the back of the room. Both Kirkan and Jess watched him walk away before turning to face each other before he nodded toward the prep area just behind them.

"What the hell, Pete?" Jess asked quietly. "Alyse is one of my best friends, and I have to hear about the fact that she's missing from _Bryan_, days after the fact?"

He sighed. "Jess—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head emphatically. "No no, no no," she said in the tone that he used to think was teasing, but later realized was her forceful denial. He heard her use the same tone to nurses and medical students who made mistakes with her patients. "You do _not_ get to give excuses, not about this. You don't get to play the loner, eccentric writer card who doesn't need anybody's help, not when it comes to Alyse. She's pretty much the only internist I have _any_ respect for, but more importantly…" Her voice trailed off as she looked away, and Kirkan was surprised to see her blink away tears. She looked down at her left hand and began twisting her West Point ring—"_That's where you wear a West Point ring. Says you're married to the Army,"_ Bryan had explained once—before speaking again. "I couldn't have survived internship without Alyse. There was a lot of shit that went down that went down that year, on top of the _usual_ internship shit, with the whole Josh situation and getting back together with Bryan, and she kept me from going unglued. I owe her a lot. I owe her _everything._"

"Jess, I'm sorry, but—"

"You've been deployed, Pete." He blinked at the sudden change of topic before frowning, wondering where she was going with that. "Alyse is on her _second_ deployment. I'm less than three months from making major, and if you count West Point and my years on scholarship at Yale, I've been in the Army for fourteen years, and the closest I've come to danger is driving back from Baltimore after a thirty hour call at Shock Trauma. Do you know what I was doing when Bryan was getting his leg blown off in Iraq?"

He frowned and tried to count back the years. "Studying at Yale?" She snorted.

"More like _drinking_ at Yale. It was switch weekend—the weekend between rotations in the third year of medical school, a weekend without responsibilities—when I got the call from one of our West Point classmates about what happened. So what did I do? I finished my drink, hooked up with a first year med student, went back to the party, and proceeded to drink myself to the point where one of my friends had to take me to the ER."

He was pretty sure he knew the point she was trying to make, in her usual roundabout manner. "You can't feel guilty about what happened to Bryan. Or Alyse. Training to be a trauma surgeon—"

She shook her head slightly, interrupting him again. "I've seen a lot of people I'm close to head off to war, and thankfully, the majority of them come back without a scratch, but it still freaks me out. I can't… What happened to Bryan, I can't go through that again. It was two years after he got back from Iraq before I saw him again, and that was just because we literally ran into each other at the hospital. He was at Reed for _months_; it's not that long of a drive from Connecticut. I made that drive a dozen times my intern year. I just... didn't go."

He knew that there was nothing he could say to make her feel more confident about the situation, not when he was feeling like his world was spinning out of control already. He also knew there was no way he could apologize for not telling her what was going on sooner, so he didn't even try. "Bryan doesn't hold anything against you," he said instead. "Not the fact that he got hurt while you were in school or anything else that happened in those years."

"I know," she said. "I don't... I don't feel _guilty_, per se. I just... I'm just the most pathetic excuse ever for an Army officer." She rolled her eyes and gave a self-depricating smile. "I've seen so many of my friends be deployed, and my entire military career has been at West Point, Yale, and Walter Reed. I haven't done my part."

"That why you haven't told Bryan you don't want him to take the West Point position? Because he's 'done his part' and you haven't?" She looked at him sharply, her dark eyes widening. She opened her mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance.

"Peter?" He turned to see Lyndi standing by the open door leading to the press room with an impatient expression on her face. "We're ready to get started."

He nodded and turned back to Jess. "Go," she said. "We'll catch up later. And drink away the last few days with half priced bottles of wine at Olazzo." He offered her a tight smile before taking a deep breath. He turned to Lyndi with a nod.

"I'm ready."

* * *

Dr. Alyse Aachen sighed before going back to mentally running through Advanced Cardiac Life Support algorithms, trying to keep her mind on something—anything—other than the fact that she was being held hostage in an abandoned hut on an isolated corner of base, likely for some obscene ransom that they expected Pete—or, more accurately, the _New York Times_ bestselling author Gregory Aachen—to pay. The whole thing was so random that if it weren't actually happening to her, she would have thought that it was something out of one of Pete's novels, as opposed to real-life events.

She frowned. It sounded like one of Pete's novels because it was something that Pete would write—which meant it was something that he would _do_. If he even thought about coming to rescue her himself, _she'd_ be the one to kill him. Sure, he kept himself in shape and never went two weeks without visiting the firing range, but sometimes the man seemed to forget that he was on the wrong side of forty to be pulling the type of stuff he did as a scout sniper.

She sighed again, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes and trying not to think about her husband or her life back at home. Once she realized that her captors weren't out to hurt her, the headaches subsided somewhat, no longer causing the rolling nausea and vomiting of just a couple of days before, but just being in the situation she was in made her so tense that she still felt an intense ache that wrapped around her skull, causing her head to swim, her vision to darken, and her body to feel ready to collapse under her weight any time she tried to move. She used to wonder why Drew had allowed his flight surgeons to medically ground him and discharge him from the Corps for headaches that she was capable of controlling well enough to survive college, medical school, internship, and residency; if her brother's headaches were anything like this, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to be in the cockpit of a fighter jet.

Her eyes opened at the sound of the door opening, and she carefully turned her head toward the source of the sound. "Doc," the young man greeted once he realized that she was awake. He carefully closed the door before holding up a plastic bag. "I brought you some food," he said haltingly. "They had some Washington apples in the DFac, and I remember you saying something about being from Washington, so, uh…" His voice trailed off. "It's pasta bar night, so I got you some spaghetti with meatballs, too."

"Thanks, Specialist," she replied, leaning forward as far as she felt comfortable to accept the bag. She was pleased to see he also thought to include some napkins and plastic utensils. Not having had anything other than Gatorade since the evening before, she opted to go straight for the pasta. "And I'm missing Olazzo for this," she grumbled as she opened the styrofoam container. Although she wasn't confident on the passage of time or the time zones separating her from Maryland, she was pretty sure the gathering at Olazzo would have happened a number of hours before, but just the thought of one of her favorite restaurants in Bethesda still caused a pang of loneliness. She remembered the last Monday night dinner at Olazzo, the week before she left for Afghanistan and three days before Drs. Wyatt and Ellie Reynolds left for the Philippines, the mischievous glint in Jess' eye as she poured Alyse another glass of wine. Pete had asked if she was trying to get his wife drunk; the surgeon replied that she accepted thank-yous in the form of signed novels. Alyse had wryly remarked to Bryan that if Jess seemed to think alcohol was required for sex, that he was doing something wrong.

If there even _was_ a dinner at Olazzo the evening before, she doubted it was as high-spirited as the evening she remembered.

She sighed at the thought as she brought a forkful of the pasta to her mouth, grimacing slightly at the taste. It wasn't horrible, but, well, it was Army dining facility food. If it weren't for the fact she was pretty sure it was the only meal she was getting until dinner the next day, she'd pass. She wondered if they were keeping her hungry and thirsty to keep her too weak to make an escape, or if between their duties at the hospital and keeping guard on her, that that was as often as they managed to visit any of the many places on base to get food.

Alyse glanced over at the uniformed medic, seeing him shoveling food into his mouth with an intensity she was pretty sure they taught in boot camp. She had laughed at Jess for eating like that during their week-long C4—Combat Casualty Care Course, a combined Army, Air Force, and Navy medical corps field training exercise during internship—and her friend just looked at her sheepishly and replied that whenever she was out in the field, she reverted to her West Point training of just trying to eat as much as possible before moving onto the next exercise or class or whatever else they had to go off and do.

She ate another bite of spaghetti before reaching for her Gatorade. "How are things at the hospital?" she asked conversationally after taking a sip. "They still looking for me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Specialist Adam Jenkins replied, his face flushing slightly in embarrassment at the question. "There was an NCIS agent here for two days to ask some questions, but he was mostly asking about your detainees and the attack on the convoy."

She frowned. "So they think the Taliban took me?"

"Yes, ma'am, I think so."

"How are you guys going to collect a ransom if they think I'm a POW?"

"Oh," Specialist Jenkins said. "Well, ma'am, I think they _did_ think that, but Stemplinski sent an email to your husband's publisher telling them that we have you and that we'll return you for five million dollars. We were going to send that directly to Gregory Aachen, but we couldn't find his email address."

"That's because there _is no Gregory Aachen_," she said slowly to emphasize her words. "I've told you guys that a dozen times. It's a pen name. He asked if he could use my last name after we had been dating for a few months. He said that way, if his books ever got published, they'd always be on the first shelf." She took another few bites of the room-temperature pasta. "His publishing house probably gets hundreds, if not thousands, of emails a day. They might never find yours."

"Oh," Jenkins said again. "Actually, they already did. There was a press conference and everything. I got a part of it on my iPod." He pulled the thin black device from the bottom cargo pocket of his ACUs and brought up the right video. "Here you go, ma'am."

"Thanks," Dr. Aachen replied distractedly, taken aback by the paused image of her husband on the screen. She put the ear buds in and pressed play.

Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of Pete, looking like he had aged a decade in the days since they last spoke on Skype, the morning of the convoy attack. She hoped it was just the lighting in the press room, but his hair looked even more gray, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than she had ever seen. He looked pretty much like how she felt—like hell.

She blinked back the tears and forced herself to pay attention to the ZNN video, with the words _Wife of Author Gregory Aachen Abducted in Afghanistan_ along the bottom. "_Last week, my wife Alyse, a Navy physician stationed at Camp Phoenix outside of Kabul, Afghanistan, was kidnapped from her office,_" he was saying. "_I'm not going to talk about an on-going investigation, but I will say that recently received a communication from the people holding her captive. To those people, whoever and wherever you are, I will give you everything you ask for. In return, I just have one request: please don't hurt my wife._"

"_That was Peter Kirkan, a reporter for _Stars and Stripes_ and perhaps better known as the __bestselling novelist Gregory Aachen, at a press conference earlier today_," the blond ZNN reporter said at the cut-away. "_The Naval Criminal Investigative Service has confirmed that Dr. Alyse Aachen, an active duty Navy lieutenant currently deployed to the field hospital at Camp Phoenix, has been missing since late last week. As Mr. Kirkan said, they can't comment on an on-going investigation, but NCIS director Leon Vance has promised that this case has been a top priority since they were first made aware of Dr. Aachen's abduction, and that they will not rest until she is returned safely to her post in Afghanistan. This is Cindi Montgomery for ZNN; Brad, back to you._"


	34. Chapter 34

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 34**

_A/N: I know I've said multiple times that I like getting reviews (and I do), but I really only like them when they're about my stories. If you have a personal attack against me, either keep it to yourself or send it via private message; there's really no need to leave an anonymous yet public review in a story that tells the world just how little you think of me. (Don't bother looking for the review; I already removed it, because it was rather inappropriate for this site). FFN is a fun place; let's keep it that way._

_Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's get back to the story (which I hope you're still enjoying, regardless of your personal feelings about me as a person)._

* * *

Ziva was shaking out her wet hair, fresh from the shower, when she heard the unmistakable sound of a vibrating cell phone on the nightstand. She glanced up, eyebrows raised. Tony raised his hands defensively. "Don't look at me," he protested. "It's your phone."

"I do not know why they call this 'silent'," she grumbled, reaching across the bed toward her phone. "It is still quite loud." Tony chuckled as he perused his tie collection, realizing belatedly that the one that looked great with the suit he was wearing must have been at his apartment.

Ziva glanced at the display before accepting the call. "Hello, Gibbs," she said calmly.

_"You at your place?_" he asked without preamble. She raised her eyebrows at his brusque tone.

"And good morning to you, too, Gibbs," she said calmly. The growl she got in return was enough to tell her that he was less than amused.

"_Ziva._"

"Yes. We are at my apartment," she replied in response to his earlier question.

"_Need you to go pick up Kirkan_," he ordered. "_He lives in Bethesda. You're the closest_."

She frowned at his words, giving Tony a puzzled shrug at his questioning expression. "Why does he need someone to pick him up?" she finally asked. "He has been getting to NCIS without difficulty."

"_He's been getting a lot of publicity since the press conference yesterday_," the supervisory field agent replied. "_Some real nut jobs out there sending in threats. We need to keep a close eye on him, make sure nothing happens._"

She rolled her eyes; a child-sitting assignment. Still, she knew better than to argue, and it wasn't as if she had anything urgent going on at the office that she had to get back for. "We will go get him," she promised. "Is there anything specific—." She stopped talking when she realized she was talking to dead air; he had hung up on her. "That we need to look out for," she grumbled, finishing the sentence as she tossed the phone onto the still-crumpled sheets from the night before. She had to fight back a smile at that; the Honey Dust from their anniversary had made another appearance. She decided around 0200 that Raspberry Kiss was definitely her favorite flavor, and Tony certainly hadn't seemed to disagree. The lack of sleep had been completely worth the extra ten minutes it took them to complete their morning run.

"What'd the boss want?" Tony asked as he secured the second-best tie choice around his neck.

"We are to child-sit Kirkan," she complained. He looked over at her and grinned. "What?" she asked. He just kept grinning. "_What?_"

* * *

Tony DiNozzo gave a low whistle as he pressed the intercom button to the lobby of Peter Kirkan's high-rise condo. "Swanky," he said with a nod of approval. Ziva glanced over at him and frowned.

"He is a successful author," she pointed out.

"Have you _seen_ McGoo's place?"

"Good point." They waited a few more seconds before they heard a soft _chirp_ and the intercom came to life.

"_Can I help you?_"

"We're here to see Peter Kirkan," DiNozzo said. There was a pause before the doorman spoke again.

"_Call 1203 at the box to your right,_" he said. "_He can buzz you in from his unit_."

"So what do you think?" Tony asked as he dialed the number. "Think we should get a place with a doorman? How much do you think a place like this costs?"

"More than either of us could afford," Ziva replied. "And I was not aware _we_ were getting any sort of place." He just smiled knowingly as they waited for Kirkan to answer.

Five minutes later, they were on the twelfth floor, waiting outside unit 1203 for Kirkan to open his door. When the door did open, though, they both blinked in surprise.

"You guys must be from NCIS," the short, exotic looking woman said as she swept long, thick straight dark hair away from her gray 'ARMY PHYSICS' tee-shirt. "Pete's in the kitchen." Her large almond-shaped eyes, which looked slightly bloodshot, blinked once before she turned and headed back down the hallway. "Pete, the NCIS agents are here," she called out before turning down another short hallway. DiNozzo's eyes continued to follow her retreating form, trying to figure out what just happened.

"What?" he asked when he turned to see Ziva watching him with eyebrows raised.

"I did not say anything," she replied. "I was just thinking that she is very attractive."

"Is this when I'm supposed to say that I didn't notice?" She smirked slightly but didn't reply.

"Pete?" the woman's voice called out. "Where the hell do you keep your headache medicine?"

"Medicine cabinet in the master bathroom," Kirkan called back in reply. "I don't know if they're any good. They might be old—they're Alyse's pills." Tony and Ziva followed the sound of his voice to the large gourmet kitchen, where a disheveled Peter Kirkan in a tee-shirt and shorts was standing at the stove over what appeared to be a pan of scrambled eggs. Tony idly wondered if Marines sign some sort of contract when they join stating that they would never wear a tee-shirt that doesn't have 'USMC' on it somewhere. "Agent DiNozzo, Officer David," he greeted, nodding them toward barstools on the other side of the kitchen island. "Sorry about this," he said, gesturing vaguely around him. "Bit of a late start. Too many half-priced bottles of wine last night. Can I get you two anything? The coffee's hot. I think I also have some orange juice, and if you want something to eat, I have the makings of an omelet, uh, probably have some bacon and sausage around here somewhere…" His voice trailed off as he abandoned the eggs on the stove to search the fridge.

"Coffee will be fine for me," Ziva said.

"Sure," Kirkan replied, walking away from the fridge to pull a purple and gold University of Washington mug from the cabinet. "Agent DiNozzo?"

"Tony, will be fine," he corrected. "And so will coffee." Kirkan nodded and grabbed a second mug.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Yes," DiNozzo said, at the same moment that Ziva replied, "No." Kirkan smirked slightly as he got Tony the cream and sugar before returning to his eggs. He was just scooping them out onto a plate when the dark-haired woman entered the kitchen.

"Eggs, Pete?" She made a face. "I don't care what people say, it's a horrible hang-over food. _Horrible._ Do you have cereal or oatmeal or bread, or anything with carbs?"

"You know where everything is." He glanced up to see Tony and Ziva trying to appear unobtrusive and failing miserably. "Oh, sorry. Jess, Agent Tony DiNozzo and Officer Ziva David from NCIS. Tony, Ziva, Dr. Jess Ting. She's a chief resident in general surgery at Walter Reed."

"Sorry about before," Dr. Ting said, digging into her bowl of cereal with gusto. She waved her hand absently near her head. "Little bit hung-over. And already about three hours late for work." She took another spoonful of the cereal before she registered the looks on the NCIS agents' faces and started laughing, shaking her head emphatically. "Oh, no," she said. "No no, no no. Pete—no. No offense, Pete, but oh God, no. My boyfriend is in the guest bedroom, putting on his leg."

Ziva frowned. "I have lived in America for six years now, but I still have some problems with your idioms. I am not familiar with that one."

Kirkan laughed and shook his head. "Not an idiom. She's speaking literally." As if on cue, they heard footsteps coming at them from down the hall.

"Hey, Jess, did you mess with my leg?" the tall blond said as he entered the kitchen, a frown on his face as he looked down at his prosthetic leg below his black gym shorts, and this time, it was Ziva's turn to raise her eyebrows appreciatively. "It doesn't feel quite right."

"I didn't touch your leg," Jess replied before eating another spoonful of cereal. After swallowing, she continued, "I bet it doesn't feel right because you just ran five miles with your walking leg."

"Yeah, that probably wasn't my best idea ever," the blond man agreed. "I think I need new shoes. And I need to start keeping a running leg in my trunk or something."

"Because that's not creepy or anything," Dr. Ting replied dryly. "Besides, do you think the Army is going to give you _another_ prosthesis? Those things cost a few thousand dollars, and you aren't exactly using yours for official Army business."

"It was official Army business that caused me to need a prosthesis," he pointed out.

"Which is why you get them for free."

He shrugged. "Well, if they won't pay for it, I'll just have to find another way to get one. Maybe I'll marry a rich doctor and have her buy it for me."

Dr. Ting snorted. "Good luck with that." Her eyes back down on her bowl of cereal, she missed the look of consternation on her boyfriend's face. She finally glanced over at him and frowned. "Really, Bryan? _Really?_"

"What?" he asked, confused. She reached over and plucked at his shirt.

"Do you _really_ have to wear a West Point shirt every time you have an appointment at Walter Reed? Believe me, the twenty-year-olds in the amputee clinic get it. You were an officer. You're better than them and all that. Do you _really_ need to rub it in?"

"I'm not... And what about you, with your Army Physics shirt?"

"I'm going to put a scrub top over it!"

"My head hurts too much to listen to you guys fight," Kirkan interrupted. He waved toward the door. "Argue in the car on your way over to Reed. Besides, I have to get to NCIS to help them find my wife."

"My appointment with J.P. isn't for another hour and a half," Bryan protested.

"Oh, you're going to see J.P.? I didn't know he was still around," Jess said, the argument about the shirt—as well as the comment about Alyse—forgotten. Bryan nodded.

"Couple more months of his amputation fellowship left to go," he said. "Then he's PCS-ing to San Antonio. I think he's being deployed again later this year."

"Never did understand why they send rehab docs to war, when everyone who needs rehab comes back home," Jess said thoughtfully.

"Which one was J.P. again?" Kirkan asked with a frown.

"Went to med school with Ellie, graduated the year before her, worships at the Church of Tressel every Saturday from September to the beginning of January," Jess said. "Married to Stacey, who's a pediatrician at Georgetown."

"Deployed to Ibn Sina in Iraq a couple of years ago," Bryan added. "Rehab doc specializing in amputations. Obviously."

"Tressel?" Tony asked. The other four the in condo all turned to face him. Kirkan, Bryan, and Jess all raised their eyebrows; Ziva only groaned. "Ohio State?"

"Do not encourage him," Ziva said warningly. "He will not stop."

"West Point, West Point, University of Texas," Bryan said, pointing to each in turn. "No Buckeye fans here." Ziva smirked over at Tony, who shrugged in defeat.

"I really should get over to NCIS, guys," Kirkan said a minute later.

"Yeah," Bryan said, the light mood of the room instantly gone. "I'll just hang out in the surgeon lounge until my appointment." He drained his coffee and rinsed out the mug before putting it in the dishwasher. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said to Kirkan. "I talked to one of my buddies at Camp Phoenix. He's a helicopter pilot, knows Alyse but mostly by reputation. Has no idea what you do, so he doesn't know who does." He blew a stream of air through his lips. "The FOB has been at threat level red since Alyse went missing, so he wasn't sure if it was anything or if it was just a result of that, but there was one difference that struck him. He said that there was a medic who was interested in being flight trained, so he would make a point to come out any time the chopper came in for an evacuation, just to watch. He hasn't seen the kid once since Alyse was kidnapped, not even that day, when they had several to take to the air base from the attack on the convoy." He shrugged a shoulder and headed for the door. "Like I said, don't know if it's anything, or if the kid just got bored watching them load up helicopters, but I figured I should pass that along. Anyway, the offer to help still stands, so if you think of anything you need, don't hesitate to ask." He smiled thinly at the door before nodding to Tony and Ziva. "It was nice meeting you guys. Find my friend."


	35. Chapter 35

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 35**

_A/N: A little bit sore today--ran the Army Ten Miler yesterday with 20,000 of my closest friends :) It was actually a lot of fun, even with waking up early on one of my few days off to deal with the completely packed Metro and spending an hour after the race to find my friends (the ones I actually came with, not the other 19,995 or so people). Might have to find a way to incorporate that into a story at some point. Maybe a murdered sailor at the six mile mark, Gibbs having to deal with Hollis Mann's replacement... I'll figure something out, I'm sure._

_And, thank you, everyone, for your kind words. You have no idea how nice that warm and fuzzy feeling of being appreciated is after a long day._

* * *

Strangely enough, Gibbs was nowhere to be found when Tony and Ziva arrived at NCIS with Kirkan. DiNozzo frowned at the empty desk for a minute. "Probie," he barked, his eyes still on Gibbs' empty chair before turning to the junior agent. He smirked at the deer-in-the-headlights look on McGee's face. "Got a job for you. Need to find a medic at Camp Phoenix."

McGee paused, his pen an inch from the note pad. "That's it?" he finally asked. "Tony, the hospital at Camp Phoenix is staffed by both Army and Navy medical personnel. It's one of the largest field hospitals in Afghanistan. Do you have any idea how many medics there are?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "More than ten?"

"Quite a few more than ten, Tony."

"At least you won't have to complain about not having anything to do," DiNozzo said before heading for his own desk. McGee frowned as his eyes went from Tony to Ziva and back again a few times.

"He's definitely ready for his own team," he finally said to Ziva. "He's channeling Gibbs' unreasonable demands already."

She smirked slightly. "You can eliminate everyone with flight training," she said before sitting at her own desk. That didn't make McGee look any less confused.

"My friends Jess and Bryan graduated from West Point," Kirkan explained. "Bryan talked to one of their classmates, who's now a MEDEVAC helicopter pilot, currently deployed to Afghanistan. His rounds include Camp Phoenix. He said that there's a medic who's interested in flight medical training, comes by whenever the helicopter comes in order to learn the procedures, but he hasn't been by since Alyse was abducted."

"You think she's being held by medics?" McGee asked with a frown.

"It makes sense," Ziva pointed out. "She worked with them at the hospital, so they would be likely to know who her husband is. They would also know where her office is and how to take her from it without people noticing."

"And," Abby said with a flourish as she appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Everyone turned to face her, waiting to see what she had revealed. "I tracked the email. I could tell you everything that I did to figure out where it came from—"

"Please don't," DiNozzo interrupted. She grinned.

"It came from Afghanistan," she said with a flourish. "More specifically, Camp Phoenix."

Kirkan frowned in thought. "Do you think she's still on base?" he asked. If so, that was infinitely better than even the best scenario his overactive imagination came up with. On base, she had shelter, probably food and water, and if anything happened and her captors were halfway decent human beings—which was debatable; they had, after all, kidnapped his wife—she was close to medical facilities.

"Looking into the medics now," McGee said, not bothering to answer Kirkan's question.

"All you can eat food in the mess," Kirkan mused, still mostly talking to himself. The NCIS agents stopped what they were doing and frowned in his direction. He blinked as he registered their bewildered expressions and explained, "KBR charges the government more than a hundred dollars a day per uniformed personnel for food—fresh fruits and vegetables in the desert and mountains, all-you-can-eat everything, mess halls open twenty-four hours a day. Alyse and I laughed about it, because it drove Ellie Reynolds nuts. She was Alyse's roommate in college at University of Washington, now an Army preventive medicine physician. She specializes in tropical medicine—she's currently deployed on a humanitarian mission in the Philippines, counting mosquitoes or some such thing—but she did other preventive medicine things in her training, including the whole diet and exercise thing. She always complained that it was too easy for deployed personnel to get too much unhealthy food, but despite the best efforts of her and her colleagues, nothing ever changed—as one colonel explained to her, you can't tell soldiers what they can and cannot eat, when each meal could be their last. Besides, everyone loses weight when deployed anyway, so it was a moot point." He frowned again. "Alyse took advantage of that policy whenever she knew she wouldn't be able to get away from the hospital for awhile—they had take-out containers, so she'd grab a couple of meals worth of food to get her through until the next time she could get to the mess." He shrugged. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud."

"So if someone were to start taking out twice as much food from the mess as they needed, nobody would notice," McGee summed up. Kirkan nodded, feeling strangely like that one sentence meant that things were finally falling into place.

"Ziva, what time is it in Bahrain?" Tony asked, already reaching for his phone. She looked at her watch and frowned.

"Agent Burley might still be at the office," she finally replied. He grinned at the fact that she knew what he was asking as he dialed a number that was all too familiar.

"_DiNozzo, I think it's a bad sign that I recognize your extension on my caller ID._"

"Believe me, Burley, I'm not exactly thrilled to be talking to you, either," Tony joked back. "How's the desert?"

"_Hot as hell with nothing to do. Actually, you're lucky you caught me. Kim and I were just heading out of the office to head over to Freiler's house for a barbeque_." The head of the Bahrain field office sighed. "_Aachen case?_"

"You know me too well," DiNozzo joked. There was a brief pause on the other end.

"_Can you get MTAC in about five minutes?_" Burley asked. "_The base CO wanted to be kept in the loop_."

"Not sure he's going to want to hear this," DiNozzo warned. "Ziva and I will be up in five." He hung up the phone without saying anything further and turned to his partner, eyebrows raised. "Duty calls," he said cheekily. "Probilicious. Keep on that medic search."

"Medical personnel not already flight trained. Got it," McGee replied dryly, not even looking up from his computer screen. Tony smirked slightly as he returned his attention to Ziva, nodding up toward MTAC. She nodded and rose from her chair to head upstairs.

Three minutes later, DiNozzo and Ziva were standing side-by-side in front of the large screen, waiting to hear back from Burley. "Bahrain and Camp Phoenix are standing by," the technician finally said.

"Put them up," DiNozzo ordered automatically, and a few seconds later, the screen was split, a stern-looking Marine general on one side and Stan Burley and Kim Tomblin standing close together behind the senior agent's desk on the other. "Sorry to interrupt the barbeque, Burley, Tomblin," he said dryly. Stan grinned.

"We're not," he replied. "You've never tasted Freiler's attempts to grill."

"Or his wife's apple pie," Tomblin chimed in, punctuating her words with an exaggerated shudder.

Burley grinned for a second before his expression became serious again. "DiNozzo, Ziva, this is Brigadier General Mark de la Cruz, the CO of Camp Phoenix. General, Special Agent Tony DiNozzo and Mossad Liaison Officer Ziva David, from the Major Case Response Team at NCIS headquarters in Washington."

"We're glad you can join us, General," DiNozzo said diplomatically, even while he was grimacing on the inside; he hated having to involve the brass. "Not sure if you're aware of the background on the case, but we got involved because the case was brought to our attention by Dr. Aachen's husband, Peter Kirkan, a reporter for _Stars and Stripes_."

"And novelist Gregory Aachen," General de la Cruz said, his voice somewhere between dry, annoyed, and bored. "I watch ZNN."

"Right," DiNozzo replied. "Sorry, sir." He cleared his throat slightly and purposefully avoided looking at Ziva, aware that she was probably smirking at his awkwardness. "We now have reason to believe that Dr. Aachen is being held somewhere on base, possibly by a medic or team of medics."

"So you think this was an inside job?" General de la Cruz demanded. "A couple of days ago, you were interrogating personnel on base about terrorist activity."

"With what we had at that time, we believed terrorist activity to the most likely explanation for Dr. Aachen's abduction," Ziva said smoothly. Tony was amazed at how well she did this; a couple of years ago, she would have been jumping down the general's throat. Maybe all of the liaising she did was paying off. "The new evidence makes this being an inside job more likely."

"And what new evidence is that?" DiNozzo opened his mouth to reply, but Burley was faster.

"General, there's a lot that goes into an investigation," he said. "We don't have time to go over every small lead with you. You're just going to have to trust that we're good at our jobs." He let that sink in for a moment before nodding to DiNozzo to continue.

"Sir, we'd like to search the base," Tony said. "Obviously, Agent Burley has jurisdiction, but if he can't spare the agents, a team from Washington—"

"I'm afraid not, Agent DiNozzo," General de la Cruz interrupted with a firm shake of his head. "I can't suspend all operations on base just because of your hunch, not when you're now saying that your last one was wrong. We're already on threat level red. All leave and passes have been suspended indefinitely. Guards and security are doubled. And on top of all that—or maybe because of it—morale is at an all-time low. The last thing anyone needs is for a team of NCIS agents to be combing through the base, asking everyone questions about the people they work with and trust their lives to. If you get anything concrete, let me know. Until then, my answer is no."

"Well, that's just the thing, General," DiNozzo said cheekily. "We don't really need your permission. I was asking to be polite."

de la Cruz's face darkened. "I'll have you know, Agent DiNozzo—Commandant Wall is a close friend of mine. So is Secretary Holley." He gave another glare before angrily disconnecting the line.

The three NCIS agents and one Mossad liaison officer stood there in stunned silence for a second. "Well, that went well," Agent Tomblin finally said. Burley gave a low chuckle.

"Next time, DiNozzo, have Officer David speak for you. She's a lot more eloquent. And a lot easier on the eyes," he said with a grin.

"And a lot deadlier," Tony joked, shooting Ziva a quick grin. He quickly summed up what they had, with Bryan Lindemann's relayed conversation and the email from the kidnappers, promising to send more details in an email just as soon as they left MTAC. They signed off which the usual pleasantries and promises to keep each other up to date.

Tony and Ziva descended the stairs to see the entire team—including Gibbs, who had returned from wherever he was—and Kirkan, Ducky, and Abby, gathered around the plasma screen. "What's going on?" Tony asked as they approached, taking note of the pallor of Kirkan's face.

"We got another email," McGee filled him in, "this time to the NCIS account we set up for the case, the one Peter gave at the press conference. It's a video, probably from a cell phone, according to Abby." He restarted it, which was entirely a shaky shot of Dr. Alyse Aachen sleeping on a cot, wearing stained teal-green scrubs, her brown hair knotted and greasy, a gray wall behind her. The voice in the background was very clear, with the unmistakable accent of the American south.

"_As you can see, we haven't hurt Dr. Aachen_," the man behind the cell phone camera said. "_She's just fine, and she'll continue to be fine if we get our money. Set up a private Swiss bank account, deposit the money, and email the account number to this address. We're waiting._"


	36. Chapter 36

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 36**

_A/N: Sorry about the long time since the last update; I meant to update on Thursday, then FFN was acting up and I couldn't post a chapter, and then yesterday I had my PT test... yes, yes, I know, RL sucks and all that. At any rate, you get a chapter today._

_And since it has been so long since the last post, a brief refresher. The whole terrorism thing turned out to be one big dead end, after involving Mossad officers and captured undercover operatives, the State Department, DiNozzo's father, and an international arms dealer. Lyndi Crawford, Kirkan's (and McGee's) publisher, got an email from the kidnappers demanding a ransom for Dr. Alyse Aachen. The publishing house agreed to pay the ransom, as long as Kirkan went public with the abduction. The information that came forward after that pointed them in the direction of this being an inside job, possibly orchestrated by medics at the base hospital. The commanding general of Camp Phoenix, however, was not so thrilled with NCIS getting further involved in his business, and name dropped threats against anyone he could if they tried doing anything without his permission._

* * *

McGee frowned as he tried to focus on the search open on his computer. When Tony and Ziva had headed up to MTAC to talk to Stan Burley, Kirkan had filled him in on exactly what Bryan Lindemann had said, which gave McGee a few places to start. For one, the helicopter pilot had said 'medic', not 'corpsman', which meant that the kidnapper—or at least one of the kidnappers—was probably Army, not Navy, although McGee certainly wasn't going to neglect to search Navy corpsmen and risk Gibbs' wrath at only doing half of his job. Just as he told Tony, though, there were a lot of medics, and if he did a thorough background check on each of them, he'd be working on that long after the United States left Afghanistan, whenever that would be.

His next step would be to try to figure out _why_ somebody would want to kidnap the wife of a successful writer, and that required getting into their heads, something that he was definitely improving on recently, but it was still far from his best skill. That was something in Gibbs' department, something that Tony could certainly hold his weight doing, and when it involved someone who dabbled in the spy game, it was right up Ziva's alley. But unless the bad guys spent high school digging pudding out of their backpacks and climbing out of lockers, or spent their free weekends in role playing games, he was out of his element. He just had a hard time relating.

"What've you got, McGee?" He blinked in surprise at the words and stared dumbly up at his boss, watching Gibbs hand over a cup of coffee to Kirkan, who accepted with a nod. He wondered just how long he had been working on the search; it couldn't have taken Gibbs that long to get to the coffee shop and buy two large black coffees, could it?

He blinked again to see Gibbs watching him with an expecting look. "Uh, doing a search on the medics and corpsmen at Camp Phoenix, Boss," he finally said, and Gibbs just kept staring. He remembered that Gibbs hadn't been there when Tony and Ziva arrived with Kirkan, so he started over. "One of Kirkan's friends—." He stopped talking when Gibbs turned from to the former Marine, with the same expecting looking that he just used with McGee. On cue, Kirkan summed up the story again for Gibbs' benefit.

Gibbs nodded slightly before turning back to McGee. "Ziva and DiNozzo?"

"MTAC. Bahrain." McGee grimaced slightly at the one-word answers; he was becoming Gibbs and Tony. If this continued, he'd have to unlearn all his computer skills, become antagonistic toward his father, and find a female partner to have an inappropriate relationship with.

Gibbs looked like he was ready to say something, but he didn't get the opportunity, the sound of heavy and excited footsteps interrupting their conversation. "You guys are going to want to see this," Abby said, her words coming out in a rush. "So, you know that email account that we set up for tips, the one that Peter gave out at the press conference? I've been going through the emails. We've gotten, like, five hundred emails since the press conference, so that's a lot to go through. Most of them are the 'oh, I'm so sorry your wife got kidnapped' sort, and some are from some real nutjobs—I saved those emails in case you felt like going on some sort of vendetta later, Gibbs—but then I found this." She had been loading something to McGee's computer as she spoke, and with a definitive push of a button the remote, it was on the plasma.

As if the scrubs and brown hair—as well as the context—weren't enough to tell that it was Dr. Aachen, Kirkan's sharp intake of breath confirmed it. She was curled up on a military-issue cot, a gray wall behind her. "_As you can see, we haven't hurt Dr. Aachen. She's just fine, and she'll continue to be fine if we get our money. Set up a private Swiss bank account, deposit the money, and email the account number to this address. We're waiting._"

The video stopped, and Abby rushed in to explain. "So, it was sent from the same account as the ransom note. I've been trying to find things in the background to try to pinpoint an exact location on base, but—"

"But it's the most generic military setting there is," Kirkan interrupted, his voice slightly shaky. He waved dismissively at his own words. "Sorry. Continue."

"That's quite alright, good sir," she said with a wide grin and cheesy accent before returning to her analysis. "It was filmed from a cell phone, which really makes no sense, when you think about it. I mean, that far away from your standard cell phone towers, it really just becomes a camera, and if you want a camera, you should probably buy a camera. The quality—"

"Abby," Gibbs said warningly.

"Right. Not relevant." She stopped and frowned. "Actually, that's all I've got," she confessed.

"I have been working on a psychological autopsy of our kidnapper," Ducky said, getting everyone's attention. McGee frowned; he hadn't even noticed the medical examiner's arrival. "He—and it is almost definitely a he—is young and military trained. Addressing the email to 'sir or ma'am'—"

"Ducky, we already knew he's military," McGee interrupted. "That was sent from base." He flushed slightly at interrupting the talkative medical examiner; that was another Gibbs or Tony thing to do. "Have you seen the latest we've gotten from them?" he asked to cover it up, pulling the remote from Abby's hand to replay the short video. They all watched in silence, although it didn't escape McGee's notice that Kirkan seemed to get even paler than he already was.

"Ah, yes," Ducky said when it was over. He continued, unfazed by what he had just seen. "He has nothing against Dr. Aachen and is viewing this as a business transaction between him and Mr. Kirkan. In the email, he does not refer to her by name, only as 'Gregory Aachen's wife'. And I'm sure, Mr. Kirkan, you would be relieved to know that he does not wish your wife any harm."

"Except for the whole kidnapping thing," Kirkan replied. He flushed slightly at the unintentional snide tone, still feeling shaken up by the short video of his wife that he had now seen twice. "Sorry."

"You're quite forgiven. I understand the significant amount of stress you must be under right now. One of my good friends from medical school—"

"Unless Dr. Aachen is your good friend from medical school, I don't want to hear it," Gibbs interrupted.

"I am afraid her medical education was a number of decades after my own," Ducky replied with a slight chuckle. "But I do see your point, Jethro. I believe our young kidnapper, or kidnappers, as the case may be, want this business transaction to take place, and take place soon. They just want the money. This has nothing to do with Dr. Aachen as a person. In fact, they probably respect her professionally, for her position of rank if nothing else, which is contributing to their discomfort with the idea of having to hold her longer than necessary."

"Could he be a medic?" McGee asked with a frown. Ducky seemed to think about that for a moment before nodding.

"That would make sense," he agreed. "It would also explain how he knew the connection between Dr. Aachen and Mr. Kirkan."

"What's going on?" They all turned their attention to the stairs to see Tony and Ziva descending from MTAC. They quickly caught them up to date on the video and Ducky's analysis before Tony relayed their conversation with General de la Cruz and two-thirds of the Bahrain field team.

"Wow," McGee said when they finished. "The general is an ass." Tony snorted and Ziva smirked at the words. "So what now?"

"We keep looking for the bad guys," Tony replied without missing a beat. "You get anything from searching the medics?"

"Not yet," the junior agent admitted. "I was trying to figure out how to narrow down the search, beyond just 'not flight trained.'"

"Finances." They turned to face Gibbs. "If it's not personal, it's the money. Look for someone who needs money." They all stood there, unmoving, for a few seconds before Gibbs turned and walked away, and McGee realized at that moment just how little Gibbs had done on this case—he was letting Tony and Ziva do all the thinking and heavy lifting. He frowned as he returned to chair to begin to modify his search, trying to figure it out. It probably wasn't his personal relationship with Kirkan, as Gibbs had done a lot more on cases involving people he was a lot closer to, including a former commanding officer. McGee was pretty sure this was Gibbs' subtle nod to DiNozzo, to give his approval at his senior field agent wanting to move on.

"Finances," McGee echoed dully. "Right. Got it, Boss." His eyes were back on his computer screen, but he could see Ziva frowning at him out of his peripheral vision, and was sure she was wondering just what had gotten into him. He didn't look up to acknowledge her, though, because that would require explaining his thoughts and feelings about the whole situation to her, and he wasn't sure if she would get it. Actually, to be honest with himself, he wasn't sure he would be able to explain it. It had been just about seven years since he had come to work in the MCRT full-time, seven years of working alongside Gibbs and Tony, and he never really gave much thought to what would happen when the team split up. Sure, the team _had_ been split up, but his confusion over that situation only lasted two days, before Vance pulled him into his office and explained what was going on and what he needed McGee to do, and so that entire summer, he knew that the team would be getting back together and everything would be normal again. And although he didn't really feel that way, he couldn't help but liken Ziva to Yoko Ono, as if none of this would be happening if she hadn't shown up. He knew that was ridiculous, and knew that that wasn't the case at all—if anything, Ziva's presence had probably kept Tony around longer than he would have stayed had she not been there—but that thought had unintentionally popped into his head, and now he couldn't get it out.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting at that computer, trying to narrow down the search and rule out suspects, but he knew it was enough time for Kirkan to wander to the break area when his phone started ringing practically non-stop with interview requests from news shows and magazines, Tony to do at least ten things to annoy Ziva, Gibbs to come back with a new cup of coffee and do something at his computer, and for Abby to come back upstairs and ask if he wanted to go to lunch. After all of that sitting and searching, though, he finally felt like he was going somewhere. "Boss," he began, not sure if he should be directing his comments at Gibbs or Tony; both looked up. "I've narrowed our mystery medic down to a few possibilities, and at the top of that list is Specialist Adam Jenkins." He turned on the plasma screen to show the Department of the Army photo of the enlisted medic. "He's a 68W—Combat Medic. Spotless record, high marks on his personnel evaluation reports, and one of his stated career goals? Helicopter medic. Deployed with his unit to Camp Phoenix six months ago, which was five weeks after his daughter was born. And that's when things got complicated."


	37. Chapter 37

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 37**

_A/N: Unfortunately for me (fortunately for you), I've been spending most of my long weekend on the couch, all congested and sick. I blame everyone who has had to report to sick call with a cold; if they could have just stayed at home, they wouldn't have gotten me sick, too. Oh, well. It means you get another chapter today. _

* * *

Dr. Alyse Aachen continued to feign sleep long after she woke, and whether that was from a night's sleep or a nap, she had no idea; time had lost all meaning long ago. She didn't know what it was—a scent, a sound, a charge in the air—but she knew that it was Corpsman Stemplinski guarding her, and getting into an argument with the twenty-something medic with an attitude problem really wasn't going to help the whole headache situation much. The only eating once a day was bad enough in that department.

She tensed slightly at the sound of the door opening, but still didn't open her eyes. The low voices—more to keep from waking her than to avoid detection; if they were on the part of base she thought they were, nobody would hear them anyway—told her that Specialist Jenkins had come to relieve Corpsman Stemplinski. Although she wouldn't put either of the medics on her list of favorite people, she would much rather deal with Jenkins than Stemplinski. And she was sure Jess and Ellie would turn that into an Army vs. Navy joke.

After the closing of the door indicated that Stemplinski had left, probably to begin his shift at the clinic Alyse was assigned to, she remained in her faux-sleeping pose for another few minutes before blinking and yawning as if she had just woken up. She had no idea if her acting fooled Jenkins or not—back when they were roommates at University of Washington, Ellie always said she was a terrible liar—but the young medic didn't seem bothered by it even if he had noticed that she was already awake when he walked in. "Good morning, ma'am," he said with a nod.

"It's morning?" she asked as she blinked against the brightness hitting her eyes before slowing rising to a sitting position, folding her legs under her to sit cross-legged on the cot.

"Yes, ma'am," Jenkins replied, glancing down at his watch. "About 0900. I brought you some Pop-Tarts for breakfast." He reached into one of his lower cargo pockets—Alyse never ceased to be amazed, and a little jealous, of how many pockets those Army uniforms had—to pull out the silver foil package. "Brown sugar and cinnamon."

"Thanks," she replied as she took it. She had eaten half of the first pastry before speaking again. "Everything going okay at the hospital?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jenkins replied, getting comfortable on the room's other cot. "There's a rumor that General de la Cruz is thinking of moving the detainees to another base."

"They're worried that their location might have been compromised because of me," she stated. Jenkins' fair skin blushed bright red before nodding.

They sat in relative silence for a few minutes as Alyse finished the first Pop-Tart and got started on the second. "Why are you doing this?" she finally asked. "Stemplinski I can almost understand. He's a bit of an ass and doesn't always think things through before acting, but you… You're a nice guy. Not exactly the type I would peg to hold a doctor hostage."

Jenkins blushed again as he murmured something that almost sounded like an apology. He stared down at his hands, clenched together on his lap, before he slowly moved, reaching for that same iPod he kept in his uniform pocket, the one he allowed Alyse to watch Pete's press conference on. He scrolled through for a moment before handing it over. "That's my wife, Kirstin, and our daughter Amie—Amelia." The infant had one of those toothless baby grins on her face, a pink bow somehow attached to the few wisps of blond hair on the top of her head, her eyes as bright and blue as those of both of her parents. "She was born five weeks before I deployed."

"That must have been difficult," Alyse said honestly as she handed the iPod back, still wondering where this was going. Jenkins nodded, his eyes returning to that small screen.

"She had a lot of problems after she was born," he finally said. "A few hospital admissions. Meconium ileus, feeding problems, pneumonia…" His voice trailed off, remembering those weeks. "She was diagnosed the day I left Kuwait for Afghanistan."

"Cystic fibrosis," Alyse said, not even having to guess. Having done her pediatrics rotation in medical school at the largest dedicated children's hospitals in an area that served six states, she had seen it all, including the genetic disease that affected both the respiratory and digestive tracts and was seen almost exclusively among those of northern European descent. The resident on the team had listed 'parents look pale' in the criteria for testing babies with unexplained illnesses for cystic fibrosis, and the two blond-haired, blue-eyes Jenkins parents fit that bill.

Specialist Jenkins nodded. "Yeah. Kirstin told me the next time I got a chance to call." He glanced down at the picture again. "They moved back to North Dakota while I'm gone," he said, his voice somewhat distant. "We weren't at Drum long before my unit got called up, and Kirstin didn't get much of a chance to get to know the other wives, and she wasn't working yet because of Amie and…" His voice trailed off before it picked up again. "We grew up in the same town and all of our parents still live there, so they can help her with Amie while I'm gone. There's just so much to do and so much to remember and Kirstin going through all that while dealing with the fact that I'm here has been a lot for her. Dr. Mascio, over at the CSH, is a pediatric pulmonologist, so I've been talking to him about some of this stuff." He lapsed into silence again, still staring at the picture. "The fact is, all this stuff… It's going to be expensive, and, well, you know how much I make as a medic, and Kirstin and I got married right after high school and she never went to college. She's a good waitress and does really well with tips, but not well enough to pay those kinds of bills. And with all that we're going to have to do to take care of Amie, she's probably not going to go back to work anyway. Stemplinski heard me talking about this one day and told me that he knew a way I could get the money." He finally looked over at her. "I didn't know it had anything to do with you, Dr. Aachen. I'm sorry about that."

She stared at him for a moment, trying to reign in her anger. "And you didn't wonder how any way of getting two and a half _million_ dollars was legal?" He blushed bright red again.

"I know, it was stupid," he confessed, "but I thought it would be something like selling opium or poppies or something like that. I didn't think it was kidnapping." He turned back to her. "Sorry," he repeated.

"Stop apologizing," she snapped. He blinked in surprise at her sharp tone. "I've worked with you, so I know you're pretty intelligent, so I'm _really_ trying to convince myself that this is because you're in your early twenties and people in their early twenties don't think things through—and I've got stories, which you will never hear—and not because you're an idiot, but that's really hard, because this is quite possibly the _most_ idiotic thing I've ever heard." He blinked again. "You're a soldier!" she continued. "You're active duty! All of your medical care and the medical care of your dependents is provided to you for free. You don't have to pay a goddamn _cent_ for any of it. Even after you leave the Army, because Amie has CF, she'll still get free medical care. Or, she would have, if you hadn't done _this_." She gestured wildly around them.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You kidnapped a military officer!" she exclaimed, wondering how this wasn't registering with him. "And don't think that you're going to get away with it, because you're not. No matter how this ends, whether the two of you kill me or not, that's a felony, and you are going to spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth. Your wife and daughter will get _none_ of your benefits. Including medical care." She stared at him and saw the exact second when realization hit him. "You let an older and more experienced corpsman talk you into a _felony_, and because you didn't think things through, Kirstin and Amie are going to be paying for that." She squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples with her hand. This was definitely not helping the headaches. She could already tell that this would be a big one. "God," she muttered. "I was wrong. This is _worse_ than any of Pete's novels. At least those make sense."


	38. Chapter 38

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 38**

_A/N: I'm leaving ridiculously early tomorrow morning for a week of Army summer camp in the Texas desert. Should be fun, but I will be without internet access for awhile, so don't expect another chapter until I get back to the real world. Sorry._

* * *

Tony tried unsuccessfully to keep the smirk off his face as a snippet of Ziva's phone conversation went by. He was pretty sure that the guys at the switchboard had some twisted sense of humor—or a death wish—because almost as soon as McGee made his big reveal, Ziva's desk phone rang, with Specialist Jenkins' wife on the other end. If there was one thing she had made abundantly clear over the years, it was that she _didn't_ like talking to the sobbing wife/girlfriend/mother/daughter/random other female connection. Still, as serious as the situation was, it was amusing to watch. And he was pretty sure he'd be paying for thinking that for the next week or so.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," Ziva said into the phone. "Yes, yes, we will keep you informed… Thank you. Good-bye." She hung up the receiver quickly before the other woman could say anything further and shot Tony an evil look before rising from her desk. Yeah, he was going to be paying. He was already calculating how many days it would be before he was welcomed into her apartment again, much less her bed, when she began speaking. "Kirstin Jenkins saw the story of Dr. Aachen's abduction on the news. She did not want to say anything, but the guilt became too much, like a wasp in the ear that did not stop. It was just buzz, buzz—"

"Ziva," Gibbs interrupted.

"Sorry, Gibbs. She was just very… annoying."

"She's worried that her husband kidnapped a naval officer," the supervisory special agent replied. "The point, Ziva?"

"It is pretty much as McGee explained," she said, getting back to business. "Their daughter, Amelia, was born five weeks before Specialist Jenkins left for Afghanistan. She was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis shortly thereafter. Mrs. Jenkins tried to reassure him that everything would be taken care of while he was gone and that he should concentrate on remaining safe in Afghanistan. She enrolled Amelia in Tricare's Exceptional Family Member Program and established with a pediatric pulmonologist in Fargo, which is near where they grew up and where she is staying through her husband's deployment. However—"

"He wasn't so easily reassured," Tony guessed.

"No," Ziva stated flatly, giving him a short glare that caused McGee to let out a poorly-contained snort. Both turned their glares on him before Ziva continued. "He continued to obsess about the diagnosis, spending much of his free time reading information about the disorder on-line and talking to a pediatrician at the Army's Combat Support Hospital. He seemed very concerned about the financial implications, despite her assurances that it was taken care of."

"Explains why he's interested in part of a five million dollar ransom," DiNozzo said dryly. "Probie! I want to—"

"Know everything about Jenkins from the day he was born to what he ate for breakfast this morning," McGee finished dryly. He glanced up to see Tony staring at him with an almost astonished expression. "Been working with you for seven years now, Tony. I've heard it all before."

"Am I really—"

"Yes," both Ziva and McGee said simultaneously. She grinned over at him, an expression that became slightly confused when he offered her only a weak smile. Seeing that look on her face instantly made him feel bad, and he made a mental note to explain everything to her after the case was over.

"He's probably working with someone else," DiNozzo continued, the look between the other two either not noticed or ignored. "For one, a guy who grew up in North Dakota isn't going to have a southern accent. Ziva—"

"The people Specialist Jenkins spends his time with," she interrupted. He blinked and shook his head slightly.

"All been working together too long," he muttered as he returned to his seat.

"And what are you working on, Tony?" McGee asked. The senior field agent reached for the phone.

"Calling Burley," he replied. "He's been to Camp Phoenix. If Jenkins and whoever he's working with are holding her on base, he probably knows where."

---

Peter Kirkan smiled thinly as he stood from the conference room table and shook the hand of the reporter from _People_, mentally cursing Lyndi for her manipulative ways that forced him into doing such interviews. Based on the questions asked, he had no idea how the article would turn out or even what it would focus on—the man asked everything from how he met Alyse to the subject of his next novel to what his own deployment to the Middle East was like (and that question remained adamantly unanswered)—and he got an all-new reminder of why he had consciously decided years ago that he wanted nothing to do with the limelight.

The NCIS security guard who had been standing watch outside the conference room—Gibbs, sensing his former Marine's discomfort with the idea of doing interviews, put on the stipulation that they had to be done at NCIS, under guard—escorted the magazine reporter from the building, and Kirkan collapsed back down into the chair, cradling his head in his hands as he wondered exactly when his life stopped making sense.

After a few minutes of sitting like that, unmoving, he lifted his head and reached for the iPhone he had pulled out and placed on the table during the interview. The other reporter had wanted some pictures to include in the story, prompting Kirkan to check which ones he had on him. After unlocking the screen, he saw one that the magazine reporter apparently decided to use, one from their wedding. He couldn't help but smile at the memory. Before Drew Aachen had flown them away in his plane, he and their friends had surprised them with a sword arch; at some point during the reception, they had snuck off and changed into the dress uniforms, complete with officer's swords, that neither Alyse nor he realized they brought—except for the best man, Master Sergeant Mitch Lindholm, still a few months before his retirement from the Corps. As a noncommissioned officer, he wasn't authorized to carry a sword. Instead, he had brandished a sniper rifle, stating that if an officer ever challenged him to a dual, he'd prefer to be several hundred meters away, where a shiny and unsharpened sword would be completely useless. Seeing him with that rifle had made both he and Alyse burst out in laughter. Mitch had grinned and said that that's what Kirkan got for marrying an officer.

He thumbed through some of the other pictures—Alyse and Ellie Reynolds in their bright purple University of Washington sweatshirts at a football tailgate; Alyse in the summer whites she hated wearing; Kirkan, Alyse, Jess, Bryan, Colleen O'Conner, Wyatt, and Ellie waiting for the Marine Corps Marathon to start the year before last; Alyse leaning over a counter in teal-colored scrubs and a long white doctor's coat that fell down to mid-shin, her hair in a quick bun low on her head, one hand fiddling with the stethoscope that hung around her neck and the other writing something on an EKG during an evening on-call.

Alyse in her camouflage field uniform and a large camouflage backpack, looking over her shoulder and grinning as she headed down the terminal toward the plane that would take her to Kuwait.

He angrily shut the slim device off as he again rose from his chair, this time heading out of the conference room and down the stairs, where he knew he would find the NCIS team. He had nothing to offer them, but just hearing them work somehow made him feel better about the whole thing. He resolved then that his next novel would be dedicated to Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT.

Assuming there would be another novel, of course.

He found Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David in the break area, breaking off pieces of a chocolate bar as they discussed something in low and serious tones in a language Kirkan didn't understand. He was about to ask them what he had missed when DiNozzo glanced up to see him, his serious expression instantly replaced by a grin that didn't look sincere at all. "Interview over?" he asked.

"Yeah," Kirkan replied, not bothering with the fact that there were no fewer than five other interviews scheduled for the next few days. "Anything new?"

"It is the middle of the night in Bahrain," Ziva answered. "We are waiting for Agent Burley to return to the office so we can decide how to proceed."

"You guys staying here until then?" he asked with a frown. DiNozzo chuckled slightly.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said cheekily. "You should try working for Gibbs sometime. Sleep becomes a luxury."

Now it was Kirkan's turn to laugh as he pulled out a chair to join them. "Been there and done that, and not interested in the sequel."

DiNozzo brightened slightly. "I forgot you deployed with him. What was that like? What was Gibbs like? Was he always such a bastard, or is that a more recent development? Did he always have those rules? I always thought it was a Marine thing, but—"

"Tony," Ziva interrupted. "You do not have to answer him," she told Kirkan.

He didn't say anything for a moment as he thought about the questions. "You ever see the movie _Jarhead_?" he finally asked. Ziva rolled her eyes and DiNozzo grinned.

"If it is a movie, he has seen it," Ziva replied. Kirkan chuckled.

"It was something like that," he said, "but imagine Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs in Jamie Foxx's role."

"So which were you?" DiNozzo asked. "The often-immature Lance Corporal Anthony Swofford? The quiet and historically criminal Corporal Alan Troy? The—"

"None, really," Kirkan interrupted, his voice somewhat distant as he remembered. "I had Corporal Troy's role—I was the spotter—but Mitch and I weren't anything like Swoff and Troy. I was…" His voice trailed off as his memory went places he rarely allowed it to. "I was usually pretty quiet," he finally continued. "I was young and not really that sure of everything that was going on around me. Mitch was loud and always cracking jokes, finding humor in even the most gruesome circumstances, but I think that was good. Kept me from thinking… I actually met Swofford once," he said, abruptly changing the subject. "We talked for a couple minutes, but didn't really have anything in common. He tried writing fiction and it didn't work out; I can't manage to get pen to paper, so to speak, about my real life. There's something reliving past events that never appealed to me at all."

"War is hard," Ziva said softly. He shook his head, his eyes still fixed to a moment of time somewhere in the past.

"Yeah," he answered. "But that's never been the problem. I can write war. I can write the feeling of looking around at your friends and wondering if everyone was going to make it to the end of the day. I can write what it's like to follow orders you don't understand. I've written Vietnam, World War II, the Hundred Year's War, and have served as a war correspondent in both Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. Maybe someday I'll write a book centered around the Afghanistan conflict. I just can't write _my_ war." He looked DiNozzo straight in the eye. "I watched my mentor get blown up shortly after he heard that his wife and daughter were murdered at Camp Pendleton while he was off fighting a war. So to answer your question, no, Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs is not the same man as your boss. Gunny looked out for his men, making sure that we were trained for any circumstance, because we never knew what we were going to face. He was a family man, a husband and a father, who I think wrote a letter to his daughter every day. Every night before he went to bed, he listened to a tape recording of a piano being played by an eight-year-old girl, and no matter how many times he heard it and no matter what kind of shit we faced that day, it never failed to make him smile." He swallowed, his voice thick with the words he had never said aloud. "I asked him once why he did that, and he told me that it's how he stays connected, how he reminds himself of why he's doing what he's doing, and he said that if I didn't understand, that there was no way that he could explain. And I didn't get it then, but I do now." He gave a tight smile as he stood. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…I'll let you get back to work. Uh, should I talk to one of the guards about a ride home?"

"I'll drive you." He turned to face the former gunnery sergeant, whose face was completely blank of any expression as he leaned against the wall. Kirkan had no idea how long he had been standing there, but he was pretty sure that that was the first time Gibbs had ever heard someone describe him in such a manner. For the first time in twenty years, he understood why Gibbs had had no contact with anyone from the unit after he was medically evacuated from theater—they were just reminders of everything he had lost and the man he no longer was. He had no illusions that the older man would actually speak during the drive, but sometimes all it took was the company of someone who had some idea what you were going through and what you had gone through before.

Kirkan nodded slowly. "I'd like that, Gunny. Thanks."


	39. Chapter 39

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 39**

_A/N: Yes, I am back from my vacation that wasn't a vacation at all. I learned some valuable lessons during that training in Texas: 1) Texas is hot in October. 2) Body armor is heavy and doesn't breathe at all. 3) The ground is hard. 4) Body armor does nothing to protect arms and legs from said ground when diving to it at the sound of simulated gunfire. 5) If doctors and nurses were really expected to do half of the things they were supposedly training us to do, Al Qaeda and the Taliban would have not only defeated us, but probably also invaded the States a long time ago._

_Anyway, since it's been awhile since the last installment, here's a bit of a recap: The whole terrorism/Taliban angle turned out to one big dead end when Dr. Aachen's kidnappers sent a ransom note, followed by a video proving that she was still alive, that the NCIS team determined came from Camp Phoenix. After some searching, Specialist Adam Jenkins, an Army medic at the hospital on base, rose to the top of their suspect list. Unfortunately, the commanding general of the base isn't so thrilled with the idea of NCIS agents storming the base in a search for the missing physician._

* * *

Ziva David glanced up at her partner over the tops of two desks. Gibbs had never reappeared after driving Kirkan home, and McGee had disappeared somewhere a few hours after that, leaving them practically alone in the office. "You should stop drinking coffee," she commented, her eyes returning to her computer screen. "You are becoming buggy."

"Antsy," he corrected automatically, not looking over, his attention still focused on balancing a pencil on his nose. His concentration dropped as the writing utensil fell to the ground, his eyes finally meeting hers to see a knowing smirk. "And you did that on purpose."

She didn't bother responding to such an obvious statement, instead getting to what she knew was the source of his antsy-ness, if that was even a word. "There is nothing to worry about. The evidence that we have—"

"Won't be enough," Tony interrupted, earning him another frustrated sigh from Ziva. They had had this discussion several times already, in a couple of different languages. She knew that her solution would get him to shut down, but she was saving it for their conversation with Agent Burley, knowing that it would also make him angry. "Burley gets nervous around _Gibbs_. There's no way he's going to agree to a plan that would piss off a general who exchanges Christmas gifts with people who sit around the Situation Room table with the President." She blinked and frowned slightly at that statement. "I don't know if they really exchange Christmas gifts," he said at her expression. "I was being facetious."

"I did not know that you knew what 'facetious' meant," she shot back, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

He allowed a quick grin to that before getting back to the subject at hand. "We can't just waltz onto base with our NCIS badges and pick up Dr. Aachen and arrest Specialist Jenkins and whoever he's working with, not if Burley says no. Afghanistan is his jurisdiction."

"You do not know that he was will say no," she pointed out, just as she had done multiple times already. He just snorted and didn't bother saying anything else, which she knew was her cue to drop the subject and get back to work.

They continued to work in silence—well, Ziva worked in silence, while Tony mainlined coffee with sugar and tried to beat his previous high-score at something on his computer called 'Snood'—until the alarm that he had set sometime after their dinner of Chinese take-out went off. "Showtime," he said, standing abruptly, not glancing over at her as he made his way toward the stairs, taking them two at a time toward MTAC.

It was another five minutes before Stan Burley signed onto the video conference, not surprisingly, with Kim Tomblin at his side. "DiNozzo, David," Burley greeted. "Sorry about that. If I'd known that you were staying up for a chat, we would have come in earlier."

"It is okay," Ziva replied with a slight smirk. "You gave Tony an opportunity to get to the thirteenth level of Snood."

"Oh, I love Snood," Tomblin said. "I've probably deleted that from my computer fifty times since college." At the looks from the other three, she shrugged. "It's like a drug. You get addicted and then it consumes all your time so you don't get any work done. Try to quit cold turkey, and you'll probably end up downloading it again, and the cycle repeats itself. What?" she asked at the askance look from Burley. "It's not as if there's anything better to do in the sandbox."

"Remind me to get Freiler to check your computer when we're done here," Burley said before turning back to Tony and Ziva. "Something new?"

DiNozzo quickly summed up what they had on Specialist Adam Jenkins, including Ducky's psychological profile and the specialist's daughter's diagnosis of cystic fibrosis and his wife's concerns. "You've been to Camp Phoenix," he summed up. "Is there somewhere on base where a couple of medics can be holding a physician without anybody finding them?"

"Yeah," Burley said thoughtfully. He leaned forward to his computer as he searched for something. A minute later, the screen split, with Burley and Tomblin on one side and a map of the base on the other. "The back eighth of Concrete City," he said, using the cursor to point to a section of the base.

"Concrete City?" DiNozzo asked.

"Named for the T-walls," Tomblin jumped in. "Fifteen foot concrete walls that protect the huts from mortar attacks. They're arranged to form walkways, like streets in suburbia." She paused, then added, "Tall enough and thick enough that you can't see or hear anything coming from the hut across the 'street', much less a quarter mile away."

"They're doing renovations in the huts in this section, turning them from O-4 housing to O-3 housing, I think," Burley continued. "Nobody's been there since January. Dr. Aachen shares her half of her hut with Marine Captain Nichole Stover and Navy Lieutenant Dayna Backus. The other half is occupied by three Navy O-3's: Amy Major, Emily Lynch, and Jacqueline King, over here." He gestured to a section of the Concrete City probably a third of a mile from the back eighth as the bird flies, but easily over a mile through the streets between T-walls.

"Need to go in there and get her," Tony said abruptly. Burley drew in a breath between clenched teeth before shaking his head.

"Whether she's there or not, we can't," he said. "If we go in there and she's not there, de la Cruz makes a couple phone calls and we're all checking the 'help wanted' section of the classifieds. If we go and find her, he'll look like an idiot, so he'll make a couple phone calls out of spite and to cover his own ass." He sighed and shook his head again. "As much as I love working for the cowboys, you can't forget that I put in my time at State. Sometimes, you have to play the game if you want to cross the finish line."

"Stan, that's a bunch of shit and we all know it," DiNozzo snapped. "We're civilians in this job exactly for that reason—so we won't be intimidated by the chain of command. There is a Navy physician being held on that base who deserves a lot more that your fears for your job."

"I'll pass along everything you told me to General de la Cruz, and the MPs can take it from there."

"Listen, Stan, if you're not willing to do this, we'll come in and do it for you. Just say the word and we're on the next plane to Kabul. Ended up missing my vacation because of this case. It'll be nice to get away."

"It's still NCIS, and NCIS in this area comes back to me, no matter where you usually work."

"What if it is not NCIS?" They all turned to face Ziva with identical looks of confusion on their faces. DiNozzo was the first to understand what she was saying and began shaking his head.

"No," he said bluntly. She turned to face him before turning back to the screen.

"It was the attack on the convoy that led us to consider terrorism in the first place," she continued. "Another attack would be similarly explained. And if a disturbance were to occur near this back eighth, the MPs would have to go investigate." She continued to look straight ahead, avoiding Tony's purposeful glare. "Stan, Kim, I think that it would be best if you did not hear any more of this."

"You're probably right," Burley agreed. "Look forward to hearing about the ramifications. And good luck." He signed off, leaving the striped stand-by screen in his absence.

Ziva slowly removed the headset, still avoiding Tony's eyes. "Do not say it, Tony," she ordered, her voice low. "I do not want to hear it."

"Too bad." His voice was intense, and she could feel the fine tremor of the adrenaline coursing through his body as he turned her head toward his. "Don't go."

"It is not exactly the type of assignment I can pass off to someone else," she snapped in response. She tried to pull away, but his hold didn't give.

"It's dangerous."

"My job usually is."

"I'm serious, Ziva."

"So am I." The two continued to stare at each other unwaveringly, the air holding an electric charge that had nothing to do with the computer equipment filling the room. "Everyone is well-trained—"

"It's an act of war," he said bluntly. "We're talking about foreign intelligence operatives attacking a United States military base. If you're caught—"

"Then we will not be caught," she interrupted. Had their discussion not been so serious, it would have added a bit of much-needed levity, but the line just fell flat.

"They won't be using blanks," he said, unconsciously echoing the warning that Gibbs gave them before the Domino mission a few years before. The only difference was, this time the words were true. "This isn't a training exercise. This isn't a well-orchestrated façade to make a general feel good about himself, not to them. They _will_ assume that this is a terrorist attack and they _will_ shoot first and ask questions later."

"And you think that I do not know that?" Ziva replied, her voice just as intense as his had been. "Why do you think that this is something that I must do myself? I am in a position—"

"If you're going, so am I," he declared. Despite herself, Ziva let out a sarcastic snort.

"Do not be ridiculous," she said, almost mockingly, finally managing to tear herself away as she headed toward the door.

"What?" he asked angrily, following her. "What is so ridiculous about that? What's so ridiculous about involving Burley or Tomblin, either? We've all been working on this case. We're all invested in seeing Dr. Aachen get back safely."

"Because this is outside your area of expertise!" she shot back, spinning to face him again. "You do not have the training that I or the other members of my team have, and you would not be prepared to face the consequences if you fail!"

He stepped back, as if her words were an actual physical force striking him. "You have a contingency plan for if you fail?" he finally asked, his tone incredulous.

"Forget it," she snapped, again turning toward the door.

"Forget it?" he echoed, using the angry-mocking tone that she hated to have used on her. "_Forget it?_ You just admitted that there is a very real chance that you won't succeed and you expect me to _forget it?_" He closed the distance between them again and reached for her arm, but she was faster, twisting from his grasp before he could make contact. "Where are you going?" he asked as she threw open the door to MTAC.

"Home," she said forcefully. "To my apartment. I suggest that you do the same." She headed for the back stairwell without hesitation, knowing that he wouldn't bother to try to catch up.


	40. Chapter 40

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 40**

_A/N: For those of you who commented the potential for Ziva's plan to result in an international incident: yes, it would, and it's completely unrealistic that a foreign agency would attempt what she is planning for exactly that reason. So I decided to take a page from the canon's portrayal of Mossad as the big bad agency that can do whatever it wants wherever it wants without any repercussions. Gotta love fiction._

* * *

Ziva didn't get any sleep that night, nor did she try. She, of course, had a go-bag in the trunk of her car, complete with the bare essentials she would need to go just about anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat—an extra pistol and spare magazine, pair of khakis, a few casual and comfortable shirts, enough underwear to last a week without laundry, and in the hidden inner pocket, a couple hundred American dollars and a few identities of various nationalities, complete with credit and ATM cards to match—but she always appreciated the opportunity to optimize her gear with the mission in mind. After pulling into her parking space, she grabbed the bag and made her way up to her apartment, double-locking the door and keeping her Sig at her side. They were ridiculous precautions—if someone really wanted to get in, they wouldn't let a deadbolt stop them and would probably bring more firepower than the Sig could handle—but she always felt what she considered to be a healthy dose of paranoia before leaving for a mission.

She pulled the shirts out and switched them for a lightweight button-down shirt and a heavier sweater, appropriate desert wear, although she didn't think she'd be in Afghanistan long enough to need them. The khakis stayed, as did two sets of documents and cards. One identified her as a Jordanian college professor; if something went wrong and she had to find her own way back, it was a good cover, believable in both the Middle East and through Europe, which would probably be her way out. She would then dispose of that identity and use the second, of a Spanish businesswoman with a legitimate reason to travel to the States.

She added a set of throwing knives to the bag as she considered the rest of her arsenal. She had some pretty heavy weapon power in the apartment, but didn't think that was appropriate; Raanan Thal would have anything she would need, and that would be a lot easier than explaining to the flight crew at Andrews Air Force Base why she needed an assault rifle to go to Afghanistan. Instead, she stuck to a spare 9mm, knowing that she would have both her service Sig Sauer and her throw-away on her when she boarded the plane. That was probably the largest advantage of military flights; they barely blinked at her usual accessories, whereas when she flew commercial, she was limited to one sidearm—and that was only on El Al.

And she knew it was ridiculous and pointless, but she found herself tossing a small stuffed animal of a silly-looking creature with a nut for a head and a red and gray striped shirt, which she had found on her desk as a "Beat Michigan Week" gift the previous November, into the bag as well.

She had called ahead to Andrews and arranged her flight during her drive home from the Navy Yard, so that left her with nothing to do but clean her weapons. Sitting on her couch in the living room, she laid the three handguns out on the coffee table before grabbing her cleaning kit and getting to work. Even though they had been cleaned since the last time she had fired any of them, she always did this before a mission, one last thing to do to mentally assure herself she was ready and set her mind at ease. She started with the Sig and went from there, taking her time to ensure that everything was done right, and by the time she finished with all three, it was time to get to the Air Force Base. Still early in the morning, there was little traffic to get in her way as she barreled down the parkway toward Virginia, and she ended up parking the car in the garage she usually used when flying out of Andrews in what most people would probably consider to be record time.

The C-130 she was hitching a ride with was still being loaded as she walked up and flashed her credentials to the crew chief. The chief barely glanced at them as he nodded her toward the area where she could wait for the flight crew. She was tempted to ask him where she could get a good cup of coffee at that hour, but he had already turned back to his men to continue to bark orders, and she figured that getting the plane loaded with supplies for the troops in Afghanistan was probably more important than her morning cup of coffee.

Somebody had left a month-old copy of _Stars and Stripes_ in the flight lounge of the hangar. She picked it up and idly began flipping through it, wondering if she would see anything written by Kirkan, when sudden movement outside the lounge caught her eye. She looked up at what it was and immediately narrowed her eyes in something between annoyance and frustration. "What are you doing here?" she hissed at Tony after crossing the lounge to where he stood. "If you think that you are going to talk me out of—"

"That's not why I came," he interrupted, his tone low and serious, and Ziva felt her frustration dissolved at that one sentence. "I didn't want you to leave mad at me," he continued, staring at her with that intense gaze of his, and she sighed, reaching out for his elbows, clasping the fabric there.

"I am not mad at you," she finally said. She studied him for a minute, her eyes locked right on his. "You need to trust me."

It was his turn to sigh. "I do," he replied before giving her a weak smile. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to freak out about what you're doing."

She nodded slightly, glancing off to the side to see Gibbs and Kirkan leaning against a wall, both with large cups of coffee that they brought to their lips simultaneously, and frowned. "What are they doing here?" she asked, looking back at her partner.

"Gibbs would have found out what you're doing when you don't show up for work in a couple of hours," he pointed out. "And Kirkan's going with you. Got his newspaper to ship him to Afghanistan as a war correspondent on his wife's story." She looked back over at the middle-aged reporter and gave a frustrated sigh.

"That is not a good idea," she said with a frown, turning back to Tony. She paused and glanced down before returning her eyes to his. "You know why I can not allow you to come," she said in a low tone, her words more a statement than a question. "If you were there, I could not... I would be too worried about your safety to perform my mission."

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, and she knew that he knew what she was talking about, thinking about that Domino mission more than two years ago. All it had taken was one hit to Tony before she went against Gibbs' words of warning and single-handedly took on no fewer than half a dozen armed Marines. And they weren't even sleeping together at that point. She couldn't risk her personal feelings getting in the way, not when she was going against MP's who would be shooting to kill. "I know," he finally said, opening his eyes. Without warning, he pulled her to him, the kiss equal parts desperation, frustration, and need, hard and lip-bruising, nothing gentle and kind. When they separated, his hands on her jaw and hers still clutching the arms of his sleeves, it took him a moment to collect himself. "I need you to come back," he told her, reminding her of the line in his father's study: _I can't lose you again_.

"I love you," she replied softly, responding to what she knew he was saying even though he wasn't saying it. She brought her hand to his cheek and felt the stubble of almost twenty-four hours of growth, trying to give a reassuring smile, but couldn't bring herself to say those words, _I will be back_. She knew better than to give promises she didn't know if she could keep. As if understanding what she was thinking, Tony nodded slightly, his eyes locked on hers in the type of silent communication McGee was always grumbling about.

"Time to board." The words, spoken by the crew chief as he quickly leaned into the lounge, seemed to break whatever spell it was they were in, and this time, when Tony brought his face to hers for one last kiss, it was softer, more of a promise than a demand.

Before releasing her to get on the idling C-130, he leaned over to her ear, his words soft and for her and her only to hear. She gave him another smile that she hoped was reassuring but feared was just sad before picking up her bag and following Kirkan to the plane.

As she strapped herself in, surrounded by the light chatter of the pilots, she thought about those last words whispered into her ear.

_I can't live without you_.

---

The rumble of the engines and the bouncing of the plane in the turbulence was more than enough to lull Ziva into the sleep she was denied the night before, and when she opened her eyes again, there was nothing to be seen but blue sky in front of them and fluffy white clouds below. "What is our ETA?" she asked, causing the co-pilot to turn and smirk slightly in a way that told her that her snores were audible over the noise of the engines.

"Another ten hours to Kabul, ma'am," the Air Force captain replied. "You were out for quite a while."

"Yes," she answered, not bothering to explain the stress she had been under since this mission began—and even before it, considering the loops—hoops?--she had to jump through with her director over the last year and a half. She turned to face the other jump seat and frowned again at the sight of Peter Kirkan balancing a small netbook on his knees, trying to type amidst the movements of the plane. Having him here was a complication she _didn't_ need, not when she was sure he had more planned than finding a couple of people to interview and somewhere to sit to write a story.

As if sensing what she was thinking, the reporter/novelist glanced up, frowning at her frown. "Something bothering you?" he finally asked.

"Why did you come?" she asked bluntly. To his credit, he didn't bother trying to cover up his motives with excuses.

"I want to help you get my wife," he said flatly. At her expression, he continued, "I was a scout sniper. I still visit the range frequently and can still hit a target from several hundred yards away with excellent accuracy. I—"

"No," she said, leaving no room for argument. "It is out of the question."

"But—"

"No," she repeated, even more forcefully than before. "What we are planning on doing... that takes more than accurate shooting."

"I—"

"If I were to allow you to join us, you would be a liability to the mission, not an asset," she said, still giving him no room to speak. "You would be distracted by your goal of rescuing your wife." He still looked unconvinced, which prompted her to sigh. "You can not deny it," she said, as softly as she could and still be heard over the noise of the plane. "And you can not say that you trained otherwise, because my training was more extensive than yours, and I—." She cut herself off and looked away, not really feeling comfortable sharing her thoughts on the manner with a man she barely knew.

And yet somehow, he knew. "How long have you and Tony been together?" he asked almost conversationally, as if they had been exchanging pleasantries and not discussing the need to be focused on keeping people from killing you.

She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment at the fact that it had been so easy for him to figure it out, even though she knew that the send-off she had gotten from Tony at the Air Force Base made it pretty hard to _not_ figure it out. "Two years," she finally answered. He raised his eyebrows before nodding slightly and returning his attention to the small computer on his lap. Ziva frowned at the response and decided she wanted to know what he was thinking. "Why?" she asked.

Kirkan shrugged. "It can't be easy," he said, "being in a relationship with someone you work with. Jess, my friend you met the other day, was dating—well, mostly just sleeping with—one of the other surgery interns at Walter Reed during her intern year, before she got back together with Bryan. From what Jess said, it created a somewhat awkward situation for all of the interns, both during the relationship and after it ended." He shrugged again. "And their job doesn't involve nearly the same kind of danger that yours does."

"It is not easy," Ziva said, and again found herself wondering why she was telling him this. "It can be very stressful at times." She felt her lips quirk into a smile. "And worrying about him in a firefight is not easy, either."

She wondered if she would have turned that question into a joke before she met Tony, and found that she couldn't remember.


	41. Chapter 41

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 41**

* * *

At the other end of the long and mostly boring flight into Afghanistan, Kirkan was directed to the helicopter pad, where a chopper would be arriving soon to take him the short distance to Camp Phoenix. Ziva, meanwhile, headed toward the main road, where a government vehicle and military ID belonging to a nation contributing to the coalition force fighting in Afghanistan got the person she would be meeting waved through the front gate without any questions.

"It is good to see you again, Lieutenant," she said dryly as she slid into the passenger seat of the IDF version of a Jeep. Mossad Officer Raanan Thal just smirked.

"I do not get to wear my uniform often," she replied. "I like to pull it out every once in awhile." She turned the key, resulting in a satisfying roar of the engine starting. "And I am still in the reserves, so I am not even deceiving anybody by showing up as such."

Ziva snorted. She doubted Thal cared much about deceiving anybody; after all, she made her living in espionage. "Have you been back in Afghanistan long?"

Thal glanced at her sideways before navigating the windy path out of the gate. "I got in yesterday," she replied tightly, her eyes focused out through the windshield. Ziva guessed by her tone that her debriefing in Tel Aviv had not gone entirely well—and no wonder, as one of her operatives had been captured by a friendly force and used as a pawn in the oft-convoluted game they all played. She didn't think that this was the appropriate time to bring up her suspicions that the control officer was sleeping with said operative, and they made it the rest of the way to the Mossad safehouse through the uneven streets of Kabul in silence.

"I did not have much time to shop," Thal said as she unlocked the door to the unremarkable-looking house, "so I do not have much to offer, but you can help yourself to whatever you find. If you would like to rest before—"

"I would prefer to get down to business," Ziva interrupted. "The sooner this mission is completed, the sooner Dr. Aachen is returned to her hospital."

"And the sooner we can all go home," Thal finished, her dark eyes glinting with something that Ziva couldn't decide was amused or harsh. She frowned slightly but ignored the comment.

"Did you assemble a team?" she asked as she pulled out a chair from what she assumed was passing as a dining room table, gesturing for Thal to join her, in a manner that made it clear that it wasn't just a suggestion. Reluctantly, the younger woman fell into the seat across from her.

"You did not give me much time," Thal pointed out, getting down to business, "but I did have some success. Ezra is here already. Two of his former teammates from _Sayeret Matkal _will be arriving later this afternoon."

"Mossad?" Ziva asked with a frown. Thal nodded and took a sip of what Ziva could only assume was water from her canteen.

"Operations," the control officer replied. "Obviously. They do not know about the mission and will have to briefed upon arrival." Ziva nodded distractedly, not as much concerned with working with unknown operatives as she was with Raanan Thal and Ezra Hardoon being on the same mission. This entire case, there had been too much involvement of lovers and husbands and wives, and the whole thing was giving her a headache that had nothing to do with the noise of the C-130. "For that matter," Thal continued, "I do not know much about the mission and would also appreciate being briefed."

Ziva filled her in on the background, explaining what they had found regarding Specialist Jenkins and the stubbornness of General de la Cruz and the reluctance of Agent Burley. "Agent Burley would prefer a more diplomatic approach, but I am not thrilled with the idea of Dr. Aachen being held prisoner on her own base while a territory war is being fought between the general and NCIS."

"And so we attack the base and retrieve the physician?" Thal asked with a frown. Ziva could practically see the former IDF lieutenant calculating the troop movements of their small force to pull such a thing off and smirked slightly before shaking her head.

"Not exactly," she replied. She explained the attack on the convoy just outside the gates of Camp Phoenix and how that had lead them to believe that Dr. Aachen's abduction and the attack were related, and that both events were related to some sort of rescue attempt on the detainment center. "An attack on the base would quickly get the attention of the MP's guarding the base," she continued as she opened her laptop to reveal maps of the base that she wasn't supposed to have. "It would have to be well-timed and appear completely directed on the detainment center. One group would enter the base here, which is near where the detainees are held. Another group would approach here, where we believe Dr. Aachen is being held. Both events would have to be noticed by the MP's in order for them to respond to both. If we are successful, in their search for the insurgents who attacked the base, they will find Dr. Aachen."

Thal nodded slowly. "It is not entirely necessary to enter the base from two different locations," she said thoughtfully. "If we only enter here, where we believe your physician is, they will assume that the target was the detainee center and we will not have to divide our forces."

"Yes, but they are at opposite ends of the base," Ziva pointed out. "We would make it appear that the attack near the housing area was a distracting attack from the detainee center, not the other way around."

"And they would assume that it was an effort to divide _their_ forces," Thal said, understanding.

"Yes."

Thal continued to study the map of the facilities, as if that contained the answers she was looking for. "The fence closer to the detainee center will be better guarded," she finally said. "With only five people on our team, we should dedicate three to this attack. If I, Ezra, and one of his teammates—"

"No," Ziva interrupted, ignoring Thal's frown. "I will not have you and Hardoon on the same attack. You are too closely associated and I do not believe that you could be objective."

She recognized the angry flash in Thal's eyes for what it was, a perceived attack on her professionalism. "You seem to think that there is something going on between us that would not make it possible for us to do our jobs," she repeated in a flat voice. "That is very interesting, coming from someone who has been dating her partner at work for two years."

Ziva refused to let Thal's words bait her into getting angry and saying something that she would regret. "And those two years have taught us what we can and can not do objectively at work," she replied. "You do not have that. You have only recently had a man who should not have become your lover in the first place returned to you from captivity. You are not thinking clearly when it comes to his safety, especially when it comes to planning and executing an attack on a base of the country that held him prisoner for several weeks. If you do not agree to being on separate teams for this mission, then one of you will have to stay behind."

Thal glared at the challenge and muttered something darkly in Dari, a language Ziva had only a passing familiarity with. "Very well," she finally agreed. "There is nothing preventing us from doing our job together, but it is your mission and you are free to set it up as you see fit."

Ziva nodded tightly. "Yes," she said, the syllable effectively ending that argument. "Now go get Hardoon. We will discuss tactics and weaponry while we wait for our remaining team members to arrive."

---

There was something satisfying about packing a backpack with the items for a mission, even when that mission was to enter a friendly military base. It was surprisingly little, when the objective was nothing other that to attract attention and leave without being killed. Not unlike a prison, the base was surrounded by a few layers of security, but unlike a prison, the objective was to keep people out, not in. Wire cutters and clips would get them past the coils of barbed wire; the concrete wall with the glass shards on top would be easily breached with some well-placed C4, which would attract the attention from the MP's that they were looking for. From there, speed and stealth were their best weapons, and the small but accurate handguns Ziva strapped to her waist were more of a backup than a first resort. Once inside the camp's walls, they had to be quick about searching the huts in the back eighth that Agent Burley identified; although it wasn't a large number of the small buildings, the short time they had and the concrete T-walls separating the buildings would make it quite a challenge for her and Thal to find the right hut, throw in a disorienting flash-bang grenade to incapacitate Jenkins or his accomplice, leave the door open to make the MP's suspicious, and get out without getting caught or shot.

After Issac Rabinowisz and David Cohen, Ezra Hardoon's former teammates from the IDF's special operations force, arrived at the safehouse, they filled the two young operatives in on the mission and set a definitive plan. Hardoon, Rabinowisz, and Cohen would attack the detainee center, as they were the best trained, fastest, and strongest of the five, and their job would be more likely to result in returning fire than the breach of the walls near residential area. Once inside the camp, they would throw a few flash-bangs into the detainee center before getting out, making it appear to be an attack aborted by the base's guards. They would detonate the explosives at their section of the wall as close as possible to exactly sixty seconds after Ziva and Raanan Thal breached security on the other side of the base, in order to make it appear that Ziva and Thal were attempting to distract the guards. It wasn't a concept unknown to Al Qaeda and Taliban forces; one of their favorite tactics to disable a convoy was to set up a fake and easily-spotted IED, forcing the convoy to the other side of the road, where the real explosives were waiting to be detonated.

Because speed, not destruction, was their primary objective, they packed light for the mission, only carrying weapons to protect themselves if they had to, the explosives necessary to bring down slabs of concrete, and grenades that, aside from causing temporary blindness and ringing of the ears, were essentially harmless. They briefly debated body armor, in case they didn't get out before the MP's started shooting, but unanimously decided that they couldn't afford to sacrifice speed and agility for the security that body armor provided. Ziva and Thal would be wearing uniforms that, like their weapons, were taken directly from the Operations division of Mossad: a digital camouflage pattern in dark browns and greens, colors that made it easier to blend into the night than plain black, which stood out by being _too_ dark. The men, on the other hand, went in the opposite direction—turbans and the old American woodland camouflage uniforms favored by insurgents, purchased by Rabinowisz and Cohen at some point in their trip to the safe house from Gob-knows-where, fitting perfectly into their cover story for the glimpse that the MPs would undoubtedly get of them.

"Officer David." Ziva turned to face Officer Thal, dressed identically to herself and holding out a dark ski mask. Ziva nodded as she accepted the thin face covering, pulling it over her already braided hair and rolling it up like a hat. "The men are almost ready."

Ziva nodded again. "Fifteen minutes," she said. It was already well after midnight, in what they all knew to be the laziest time of night—after everyone but those on night watch had gone to bed, before anyone woke up to hit the gym before beginning the work day—and they had only a tight window to operate in before they would have to delay everything until the next night. She wasn't thrilled about striking a well-defended military base with so little preparation—as Tony had pointed out to her, if they were caught, this constituted an act of war—but the idea of leaving a physician in the hands of her kidnappers for another twenty-four hours was even less thrilling. Despite their claims of not hurting her, Ziva had found that people willing to commit felonies for money weren't always the most honest out there.

She snapped the slide back on her Jericho 941 and re-engaged the safety before holstering the weapon at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, barely glancing up at the three men as they approached. All three were in their mid-twenties, making Ziva feel something she didn't often feel: old. Although she knew that she was their age—even younger—when she started in the job that they currently held, the realization hit her hard that she had started working for NCIS in a position that had gradually morphed into one requiring diplomacy and the bureaucratic double-speak she still hated when they were probably still in secondary school.

Almost as hard as the realization that she was a little jealous of them.

"Hardoon, Rabinowisz, Cohen, you have the UAZ," she commanded, referring to the decades-old and Soviet-developed former military vehicle not uncommonly seen throughout Afghanistan. "Thal and I will take her vehicle. Remember, the primary objective is to create a distraction and get out. Casualties are to be avoided."

"Even among the detainees?" Hardoon asked dryly, rubbing the days-old stubble on his chin. Ziva smiled grimly; after hearing the men he had been held with for over a month bragging about what they had done and why they had done it, she could understand his urge to cause pain to men who had done the same things.

"Even among the detainees," she confirmed. She headed for the door before giving any of them a chance to argue, but not before she caught the look between Thal and Hardoon and frowned at the implications of that glance.

People needed to stop mixing work with pleasure. And maybe it wasn't fair that she kept giving people rules that she couldn't even follow herself.


	42. Chapter 42

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 42**

* * *

When Ziva David was eighteen and still going through training for the IDF, one of her fellow privates had come across a block of C4 and wanted to experiment with the plastic explosive. As an eighteen-year-old girl wanting to impress the eighteen-year-old boy, she expressed her enthusiasm, even though the part of her that had been raised around weapons and taught to respect them shouted at her to stop. As happens with all adolescents, the impulsive part of her brain won that argument.

The resulting explosion tore apart a training shed and almost set a field of dry desert brush on fire.

Her father, then a colonel in the reserve component of the IDF and a high-ranking member of Mossad—but not yet in the directorate—had been called in, and the dressing down she had received from him was at least a thousand times worse than anything the training sergeants could have dished out, and every time she had worked with C4 since, she could still hear his voice in the back of her head asking her why she had been so foolish.

She blinked away the memory of Eli David as she finished setting up the explosives, hoping that her calculations had been right and that it was enough to blast a hole in the reinforced concrete wall. She glanced over at Thal and nodded as she stepped away, listening as the younger control officer radioed over to the three men on the other side of base, asking them in Arabic if they were ready. A few seconds later, they received a reply asking them to stand-by for another few minutes, and Ziva smirked. Over-the-hill for this particular game or not, she was still better at it than the 'kids'.

As quietly as she could, she checked her weapons for the fifth or sixth time, confirming that the handguns were loaded and ready, the knife set firmly attached to her thigh where it wouldn't slip off as she ran. "It was not a mistake." She blinked and frowned at the softly spoken words, turning to Thal with her confusion clearly written on her face. Well, it would have been clear, had the face mask not obscured her features. "Sleeping with Ezra… that was not a mistake," the younger woman clarified. Ziva rolled her eyes and turned away. She didn't need to hear drama that was more suited to one of Tony's movies than an intelligence agency, not while she was getting ready to storm a United States military base.

"You were his control officer," she finally said, still not looking at Thal. "Your job was to keep him alive, not get him into your bed."

"That is not what it was about!" Ziva raised her eyebrows at the defensive tone, even though she knew Thal couldn't see her expression. The younger officer took a deep breath. "We tried to keep our distance, Ezra and I, because of our jobs, because we knew that it was not proper. And we struggled with that, because…because there was something else there, and we tried to deny it, but some things are…"

"Inevitable," Ziva filled in as Thal's voice trailed off, feeling herself smiling slightly at the word. Even years after the fact, she still couldn't hear the word without seeing Tony's intense stare, dulled only slightly by the alcohol he had stolen from Ducky's secret stash in Autopsy. She spent months trying to ignore that word, and when they realized just how inevitable some things were, months trying to avoid it, as if acknowledging that fact was the same as saying that nothing that happened between them was in their control. And then one day, Tony seemed to decide to pull a 180-degree-turn, working the word into every other sentence until she finally laughed, and since then, it was more of a joke than anything else.

"Yes," Thal replied. She hesitated. "Our work…we both know how dangerous it is, how close we are every day to losing everything." She hesitated again, as if weighing just what she could and could not say to the senior officer. "I suppose that is why your partner is at home sleeping while you are here, so that you would not be worried about each other," she finally said, and despite herself, Ziva snorted sarcastically.

"Tony is not sleeping," she said. "He will not be sleeping until he receives a phone call from me telling him that the mission was successful and all are safe." She thought about the way they parted at the Air Force Base, the serious expression on his face and barely-contained panic in his voice, and realized just how accurate that statement was. Tony had a habit of getting too easily consumed with things he couldn't change. "But yes," she said softly. "He is very good at his job, but having him here would be more of a liability than an asset."

Thal looked ready to say something, but before she got the chance, they both heard Ezra Hardoon's voice in their ears telling them that they were ready. With one final glance at each other and deep breath, they got to work.

---

The explosion did more than simply blow a hole through the concrete-and-rebar wall; it almost set a field of dry desert brush on fire, but unlike the last time that had happened, Ziva didn't have the time to stand there and gawk at it with panic in her eyes.

On point, she ran through the resulting hole with alarms blaring and dust flying, and had a flashback to her time in the TacSim—Tactical Simulator—during Mossad training, where the scenarios were fake and the bullets weren't. This time, there was nothing that wasn't real, including the pounding of her heart and the flashes of light she ran and dodged to avoid.

Avoiding detection became easier when she entered Concrete City, the fifteen-foot-tall T-walls casting long shadows she could easily blend into. Unfortunately, that was when the hard work began. She gestured silently to Thal, the sharp nod of the younger woman the only indication that she had been understood. The two Mossad officers split off, going in opposite directions to cover as much ground as possible.

The hutmets were cheap, quickly constructed buildings with concrete floors, front and back doors, an air-conditioner on one end and a heater on the other, with barely more insulation than the simple plywood walls. They were also constructed to allow the occupants to exit as quickly as possible in the case of an emergency, which meant that the metal doors, for some reason locked in their disuse, opened _out_, instead of in like a typical house door. Which meant that kicking them in wasn't an option. Fortunately, Ziva was also fairly confident that it wouldn't be necessary. In an abandoned section of the base, far away from normal traffic, locking the hutmet as the kidnappers took turns watching over Dr. Aachen was more trouble than it was worth; she was pretty sure that the one occupied by the missing physician would be unlocked. And if she was lucky, the kidnappers left the light on for her.

She ran quickly—as quickly as the conditions would allow—between buildings, her Jericho held ready near her chest in her left hand, her right hand free to test doorknobs as she scanned for any sign of people coming and going. The first row of hutmets revealed nothing, prompting Ziva to duck around a T-wall to the next row. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of Thal, on the other side of the straight row, a few hutmets ahead of Ziva, obviously having come to the same conclusion about the unlocked door. She was about to call for a SitRep from the younger control officer and the operatives on the other side of base, but stopped herself in time. If something was amiss, they would let her know. If not, they didn't need to be distracted.

She had checked three hutmets in the second row, trying to focus on any sounds that would indicate that either the MPs or the kidnappers were near above the sound of the alarms, when she saw the unmistakable sign of footsteps and disturbed dirt in front of a hutmet two away from her current position. She crouched lower, in case someone was watching from a darkened window, as she pulled a flash-bang grenade from her ammo belt and made her way quickly to that simple wood building. She paused a beat outside the door, trying to listen for any sounds from inside, before reaching for the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

She pulled the pin from the grenade and counted to three before throwing the door open with her shoulder, her Jericho ready out in front of her and the flash-bang in her right hand, and without hesitation, rolled the grenade into the hutmet before ducking back behind the metal door, crouching down and covering her ears as best she could.

The explosion, echoing in the small space, was still loud enough to leave her ears ringing, which she supposed was the point.

Before giving whoever—if anyone—was on the other side of the door a chance to recover, she spun on her foot, using her momentum to rotate around the door and into the simple space, and knew that she had the right place.

Curled up on a cot on the opposite side of the hut, hands over her ears and body made as small as possible in the fetal position, was a dark-haired and scrub-clad figure, but Ziva didn't let her eyes stop there, her whole body turning with her head as she scanned the smoke-filled space for others, seeing only a man in a Marine camouflage uniform, writhing in pain on the floor right next to where the grenade stopped, hands clasped over his ears and probably moaning loudly, although Ziva couldn't hear anything over the noise outside and the ringing in her ears. Knowing—unfortunately, from experience—that he would be incapacitated for longer than it would take the MPs to find him, she didn't bother tying him up, satisfied with just removing the weapon from his belt holster, dropping the clip, clearing the handgun, and then dropping it on the other side of the corpsman. Then she kicked him for good measure.

Dr. Aachen was still in the same position on the cot, curled up and facing the wall with a pained expression on her face. "Found Dr. Aachen," Ziva said into her radio, speaking in Arabic with an accent even she couldn't place. "She is unharmed. Leave the base." She didn't receive a reply, but hadn't been expecting one, knowing that each of the other four would follow the order without question.

Assuming they were all still in a position to do so.

"Dr. Aachen," she said loudly, again speaking English, but now with an American accent Tony had no idea she was capable of. "I am from NCIS. Can you hear me?" The physician nodded her head, then winced again at the motion. "The corpsman can not hurt you now."

"HM2 Stemplinski," Dr. Aachen informed her, her voice sounding slightly hollow, probably from temporary hearing loss from the grenade. "The other is Specialist Jenkins."

"Yes," Ziva replied, not having the time to discuss everything with Dr. Aachen. "The MPs will be coming soon. Your husband is waiting for you at the hospital. I need you to lay flat under the cot, and when they come, identify yourself loudly. I do not want you hit by mistake."

The physician again nodded and moved to roll off the cot, assisted by the Mossad officer. She didn't question why Kirkan was in Afghanistan, nor did she ask Ziva wasn't just taking her from the hutmet herself, probably because she had too many other things to worry about.

Ziva waited until Alyse Aachen was securely under the cot before she ran from the hutmet, leaving the door wide open for the MPs to see before heading for the hole that she and Thal had made only a few minutes before. She didn't see the other Mossad officer, but didn't waste any time worrying about that. She would meet up with Thal again at the vehicle, parked almost a kilometer away, or she wouldn't.

Either way, she knew that Dr. Aachen would soon be in safe hands, and even if the rest of the mission failed miserably, that was enough for her.


	43. Chapter 43

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 43**

_A/N: Hmmm, low readership of last chapter... I assume FFN was doing its standard acting out (what? FFN? Being less than a perfect website?). Anyway, here's an update, and it's going to be a long one, because it's probably going to be the last recap (don't worry, a couple more chapters to go)._

_Quite a lot has happened in the last several days in this fictional world. While talking to her husband half the world away, Dr. Alyse Aachen, a Navy physician, was abducted from her office in the hospital at Camp Phoenix, Afghanistan. Her husband, Peter Kirkan, is a reporter and novelist, and was also one of Gibbs' Marines during Desert Storm. He gave his former gunny a call when he couldn't figure out who would help him find his wife. Considering the camp's location as well as Dr. Aachen's job of providing medical care to detainees on base, the team immediately began working the terrorism angle. Ziva called Raanan Thal, a Mossad control officer in Afghanistan, who agreed to help in any way she could, as long as the Americans released Ezra Hardoon, one of her operatives who had been captured and was being held in a similar detainee camp under the identity of an Iraqi terrorist. Although Hardoon didn't know anything about Dr. Aachen, he did give them the name of someone who might, which lead Ziva and Tony up to the Hamptons, to his father's estate to speak with this man; unfortunately, that turned out to be another dead end. In this process, Gibbs realized how proficient Tony was in all things terrorism-related, and put the pieces together to come to the conclusion that his senior field agent was working on getting assigned his own team and that Ziva would be going with him, and surprisingly enough, gave his blessing._

_When Tony and Ziva returned from New York not knowing any more than they had previously, they finally got their first real break in the case: a ransom note sent to Kirkan's publishing house. The publishers agreed to pay the kidnappers' demand for a $5 million ransom, as long as Kirkan went public with the abduction, which he reluctantly did. Thanks to some amazing computer forensics work by Abby (who has gotten, sadly, very little screen time), they determined that the note was sent from Camp Phoenix, and realized that she was being held on base by one or more hospital medic. Unfortunately, the commanding general of the base was less than cooperative, and Ziva realized it was time for a less-than-diplomatic approach, and contacted Raanan Thal again to ask for her assistance. When we last saw her, she was in the process of storming the base to get the Military Police stationed at Camp Phoenix to 'accidently' come across where Dr. Aachen was being held._

_And I think that's about it._

* * *

Peter Kirkan was talking to First Lieutenant Lori Kuyt, an Army nurse who sometimes worked with Alyse in the detention center, when the sudden blaring of the alarms almost made him jump out of his chair. "The base is under attack!" a somewhat flustered looking Army captain exclaimed as he passed through the hospital lounge. "This is not a drill! You know what to do!"

His words were completely unnecessary; as soon as the alarm sounded, everyone sprung into action, the hospital becoming a center of well-organized chaos. About half of the medics and corpsmen went immediately for the supply closets, pulling on body armor and Kevlar as the other half pulled weapons from the ammo locker and set out the litters and already-prepared medic bags for that half, before making their way to the treatment areas to assist the doctors and nurses. Those who would be doing the treating were checking the cots that served as hospital beds and the equipment that surrounded them, pulling chest tube and intubation kits from the shelves, and gowning up in protective gear to prepare for their first casualties.

It was all very well orchestrated, demonstrating that they had run through the drills many times, and Kirkan couldn't help but wonder what Alyse's role would have been.

A medical service corps officer escorted him to a position out of the way for when the casualties began rolling in, which gave Kirkan entirely too much time on his own to think. Neither Gibbs nor Ziva had said anything about what the Mossad officer would be doing in Afghanistan, but he was pretty sure it had a lot to do with the current crisis on base. He just couldn't figure out why NCIS didn't simply exert their authority and search the base for Alyse. It would have undoubtedly been a lot easier. And less likely to result in casualties.

To the surprise of the hospital employees—less so for Kirkan, who had his suspicions about the reason behind the attack and knew that Officer David would have instructed whoever she was working with to avoid casualties—the patients didn't come rolling in, and the doctors and nurses began wandering around and joking amongst themselves, the standard gallows humor Kirkan was used to from listening to Alyse talking to her friends and co-workers.

"MPs found Dr. Aachen!" Kirkan stood abruptly at the words, spoken by the corpsman who had been manning the radio at the triage station, and the volume in the treatment area increased exponentially as everyone began to prepare to take care of one of their own.

"Sir," that same medical service corps officer said from the doorway of the galley area where he deposited him. "The corpsmen found your wife and are bringing her in. She's conscious and they're reporting that she appears unharmed, but the docs are going to check her over, just to be sure."

He nodded in agreement, unable to vocalize anything as he all but collapsed into the chair behind him, the wave of relief that washed over him completely overpowering him. "God," he muttered. "Oh, thank God."

"Sir, if you don't mind, we'd like you to stay in here until we know she's stable. We'll come get you right away." Kirkan found himself nodding again, even though all he wanted to do was argue, to stand up and insist that he be allowed to see his wife the second she came in.

Moments later, he caught sight of four medics carrying a litter, but before he could get a better look, or even confirm that it was Alyse, she was surrounded by the doctors and nurses with nothing better to do, and just like the MSC officer asked, he stayed back and waited for someone to come get him.

He didn't have to wait long, and when he looked up at the sound of a cleared throat, he saw that the treatment bay was empty, and almost started panicking and screaming to ask what they did with his wife. Almost. He swallowed whatever he was going to say and focused his attention on the tall and masculine-appearing woman standing in front of him. "Sir, I'm Dr. Rodebeck," she introduced. "I work with Alyse at the clinic."

"Peter," he corrected with a weak smile, finally rising from his chair. "I was a grunt. Being called 'sir' by a lieutenant commander is still a little too strange for me."

Dr. Amy Rodebeck smiled slightly before getting back to business. "Alyse is conscious and doing well. She's rather dehydrated, so we're giving her some fluids. She was also complaining about ringing in her ears, but between the alarms and what the medics reported as a burnt-out flash-bang in the hutmet where she was found, we're not too concerned about that. Her biggest complaint was a headache—"

"She gets headaches," he found himself saying. "She takes medication for it."

Dr. Rodeback nodded indulgently. "Amitriptyline. It's in her medical record. Considering everything she's gone through, though, we want to rule out anything life-threatening. We just wheeled her back to the CT scanner. She should be coming back in a couple of minutes. Since we don't have any other casualties, we're going to keep her in the treatment room for at least a few hours, to give her some fluids and medications for her headache. You're more than welcome to wait for her there."

"Thanks," he said honestly. She offered him a tight smile as she gestured toward the treatment area and a chair someone had placed there for him.

Just as the physician promised, it was only a few minutes later that a litter crew carried Alyse back from the CT scanner. She was awake and making efforts to joke around with the medics, but Kirkan could see the tension around her eyes, the signs of a headache that he knew must be excruciating. She could barely tolerate the pain after a night on call; he couldn't begin to imagine what it would be like after almost a week being held prisoner. "Hey, Allie," he said softly, squeezing her hand gently as the medics returned her to the cot. She looked exhausted and dirty, streaks of dirt on her face and rips in her scrubs, thinner than he had ever seen her, but the smile that she offered him and the shining in her bright blue eyes was all Alyse.

"Pete," she said, still smiling, her eyes still on him as Dr. Rodeback hovered around, changing IV fluids and giving some sort of pain medication into her IV. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to find you," he said with a grin, smoothing back her hair from her forehead before retaking her hand in his, his thumb rubbing the simple titanium band on her ring finger, a smaller version of his own wedding band. They had it made before she left for Afghanistan, so she would have something to wear while deployed, and the full weight of what he almost lost hit him all over again. "I couldn't just sit around at home. You know me better than that."

She chuckled and smiled, her exhaustion finally getting the better of her as her eyes fluttered closed, giving his hand one last squeeze before she succumbed to sleep, and Kirkan just sat there and watched her, hoping with all he had that he wasn't about to wake up and find that this had just been a dream, because this ending still seemed too good to be true.

---

Just as Ziva had suspected she would, she found Raanan Thal waiting for her by the vehicle, a tight expression on her face as she nodded her greeting, and Ziva realized then that they hadn't heard a single word from the men since they announced that they were ready to begin the mission. Knowing that any reassurances she tried to offer would fall flat—they had both been in the spy game long enough to know how unpredictable everything was—she didn't even try. Instead, she slid into the passenger seat, pulling off her face mask as the engine roared to life.

If Tony still found Ziva's driving through DC frightening, she couldn't begin to guess what he would think of Thal's ability to control a military vehicle through the outskirts of Kabul toward the Mossad safe house, but they made it there unharmed in what had to be close to record time, both officers holding their weapons at the ready and thoroughly checking the small house before either would let herself relax even fractionally.

They had decided ahead of time that Ziva would get the first shower while Thal stood guard, but even without that prearrangement, Ziva was sure that she wouldn't have gotten an argument if she had waited until then to suggest it. Thal's face was still lined with worry, and Ziva knew she wouldn't be relaxing until the men crossed the threshold of the safe house unharmed.

It took four shampoos before she felt confident that the smell of explosives smoke was out of her hair, and even then, the only thing that got her out of the shower was how little she liked 'military showers', turning on and off the water as necessary. The towel she had grabbed from the linen closet was rough and stiff, and even though the conditions were infinitely better than many missions she had been on, she found herself wanting to be home more than ever.

Maybe she really was too old for this.

Thal was still exactly where she left her, pacing as frantically as she could in the tiny living room/dining room/kitchen. She stopped abruptly at the sound of Ziva entering the room, panic in her eyes as her hand, still holding her Jericho, snapped up. She quickly lowered her weapon as she registered that Ziva wasn't a threat, but still didn't holster it. The two women stared impassively at each other for a long moment, both wearing blank expressions that gave nothing away, a look that was perfected during Mossad operative training.

Not surprisingly, it was Thal who looked away first, her dark eyes drifting to the door, still closed and locked against the outside world. "It has only been a few days," she said, her voice so soft Ziva wondered if she just imagined it. She turned back to the liaison officer, her expression somewhat sad. "For months, we were separated but still connected through coded messages and infrequent communications. And then he was gone from that was well, and I did not think we would see each other again." She smiled grimly. "And now, a few days after he is released, and he might have gotten himself captured again."

"That is the job," Ziva replied unnecessarily. Thal snorted.

"I am beginning to think that either Ezra is not a very good operative or I am not a very good control officer."

Ziva could've told her that the one operative she controlled ended up a traitor and dead, but she didn't discuss her failures and Thal wasn't looking for sympathy. She was about to remind Thal that it was too early to make assumptions, and if anyone was captured or killed, the command at Camp Phoenix knew she was in the country—she had to submit an official reason for entry to land at the Air Force Base, which in this case was 'NCIS/Mossad liaison business'—and they would call her if anything related to the case came up. But she didn't get a chance to say that, because as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, there was a sound at the door, both Mossad officers snapping to attention, weapons at the ready. Ziva kept her eyes fixed on the door as Thal glanced at the small screen displaying the one security camera of the safe house—electricity in Kabul was neither cheap nor easy to come by—before muttering some sort of thanks to some deity under her breath and lowering her weapon. "It is the men," she said, stepping toward the door.

Isaac Rabinowisz was the first through the door, and then Ezra Hardoon came in with his arm over David Cohen's shoulders, using the other man as a crutch to avoid putting too much weight on his left leg, wrapped with the blood-stained fabric that used to be his turban. "Sorry we're late," Cohen said with a strangely amused smile. "Would have been here sooner, but we should have figured that with Magneto along, a bullet would be involved." Ziva blinked at the reference to the movie character—which Tony informed her was actually a comic book character, which just led to more confusion and a longer-than-necessary commentary about modern cinema—sounding strange in the Hebrew sentence and coming from someone who had spent his entire adult life killing people. He glanced up after depositing Hardoon on the couch and grinned. "A villain in the X-Men series who acts as a magnet, attracting metal objects." He shrugged. "I worked alongside an American unit when I was still a paratrooper. Hardoon has that same ability, only his isn't voluntary and usually involves projectiles designed to kill or maim."

"I'm just glad that American Marines are trained to aim for center mass," Hardoon commented, wincing as Thal unwrapped his makeshift bandage to get a better look at the wound. "If they aimed for my head, they might have _hit_ center mass."

Ziva smiled slightly as she allowed herself to relax, reholstering the Jericho. Her hand was still close to her waistband when she felt the vibrating of her cell phone and froze, remembering why she was in Afghanistan. She pulled the phone from her belt and stared at it for brief second; this was the call that she had been waiting for, the one that would tell her whether or not it was time for her to go home. She had had to fight the temptation to go immediately to the hospital to ensure that Dr. Aachen made it there safely, knowing that it would have made quite a few people suspicious if a foreign intelligence agent walked onto base right after it was attacked. So she had to wait for one of those people who knew she was in the country to connect the dots—lines?—and give her an update.

She just didn't know if the update would be 'Dr. Aachen is here safely', or 'we saw you break onto our base and now we're going to be setting up your accommodations in one of our detainee camps'.

She cleared her throat before accepting the call, bringing the phone to her ear. "David."


	44. Chapter 44

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 44**

* * *

Ziva David wondered if she should be concerned about the Marine escort from the gate or if it was standard procedure while the base was under lockdown. Either way, the young private first class wasn't saying anything, despite her best efforts to get him to talk. She was beginning to think that Gibbs' silence was more a function of his Marine training than any personality trait.

"This way, ma'am," the private first class said, nodding toward the road to the hospital. Ziva quirked an eyebrow as she hitched her small duffle bag further up on her shoulder; she was hoping that meant that they were taking her to see Dr. Aachen, as opposed to checking into the Hotel Detainee.

They crossed through the entry—Ziva couldn't bring herself to call it a 'door', as the entire hospital was a series of interconnected and air-conditioned tents—of the large-ish Combat Support Hospital, where the private first class straightened to attention. "Sir," he said to the Navy medical service corps officer, "Mossad Officer Ziva David."

"Lieutenant Chris Crosslin," he greeted, offering his hand and dismissing the Marine with a nod of his head. "And before you say anything, no, I haven't forgiven my parents for that name." She frowned and made a mental note to ask Tony if that was some sort of pop culture reference. "Thanks for coming, and sorry about the necessity of the guard. The base was attacked a couple of hours ago, although we have yet to find any damage, with the exception of a couple of holes in the wall."

"I am sorry to hear that," Ziva replied, hoping that she only imagined the slight smirk in her voice.

"Yeah," Crosslin replied. "Seems to be a common occurrence these days. Anyway, while the MPs were investigating the attack, they came across Dr. Aachen, being held in an empty hutmet. Talk about your happy coincidences."

"Yes," Ziva said with a nod, hoping that he didn't make a Gibbs-like realization that he didn't believe in coincidences. "How is Dr. Aachen?"

"Surprisingly well," the lieutenant informed her. "Her biggest complaint was a headache, believe it or not. I understand that you've been working on her case from DC?"

"Yes," she said again, deciding not to get into how they recently found evidence that the physician was being held on base but General de la Cruz refused to believe it.

"The doctors are holding her in the treatment bay overnight, just to be safe," Crosslin continued. "Her husband is with her now and suggested that we give you a call to let you know about the development." They stopped outside the open treatment bay, where Crosslin nodded toward the one occupied cot and the man sitting watch next to it. "You can go in and say hi, if you want."

"No," Ziva replied softly, her eyes still on the couple. "I do not want to wake her." _And risk her recognizing my voice_, she thought but didn't vocalize. Kirkan still hadn't looked up, probably not even realizing that Ziva was there, he was that focused on his wife. He had a slight smile on his face as he watched her sleep, probably still not believing that after every thing that had happened over the last week, after all the dead ends and empty leads, that she was not only found, but found almost entirely unharmed.

There was something about Kirkan's vigil that reminded her of the one thing she still had to do before she could go back home. "May I use your phone?" she asked, removing her eyes from Kirkan and Aachen and turning toward Crosslin. She had her cell phone, of course, but even with her international SIM card, reception in Afghanistan was shaky at best.

"It's DSN only," the MSC officer said as he gestured toward a small office area, where Ziva dialed the DSN for NCIS headquarters from memory, following it up with Tony's extension when the line connected. She had no idea what time it was in Washington, nor did she care enough to figure it out; she knew that Tony would be there.

_"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,"_ he greeted, somehow sounding fatigued and worried in those four words.

"Hello, Tony," she said. She could see him at his desk, leaning over his keyboard as he tried to find something to do to keep his mind occupied while she was off playing vigilante on the other side of the world.

_"Ziva,"_ he replied, and now she pictured him straightening quickly, probably hitting his head on something or nearly tumbling out of his chair as he did so, and she smirked slightly. _"Good news?"_ She could hear the next part of his question without him saying it—_"or do you need someone to bail you out?"_—and felt a guilty pang at what she had put him through.

"Dr. Aachen was found," she reported, knowing that LT Crosslin could hear her and was trying to pretend that he couldn't. She ignored him. "She is at the hospital now and is doing well."

_"Good,"_ Tony replied with obvious relief. _"Kirkan with her? They get Jenkins and his accomplice?"_

"Yes, and I do not know," she replied. She almost slipped up and identified the other kidnapper as HM2 Stemplinski before remembering that she wasn't supposed to know that. "They have not told me."

Her words were met with a long stretch of silence. _"Okay,"_ he finally said. _"You sticking around until you find out, or are you coming home?"_

"Burley and his agents can take it from here," she said. "I will be home as soon as I can arrange transport." She paused for a second before adding, "Get some sleep, Tony. It is over."

_"Yeah,"_ he replied, and she knew from his tone that sleep was probably the last thing he'll be doing. She just hoped that he'd be able to focus his insomnia on something constructive, like getting the reports finished so she wouldn't have to deal them when she got home. He cleared his throat. _"I'm glad you're okay."_

In her peripheral vision, she saw Kirkan lean forward in his chair and press his lips briefly to his wife's forehead before righting himself. "Me, too."

---

The squad room was darkened for the evening, the only sounds coming from the vacuums of the night cleaning crew, the dysrhythmic clicking of two keyboards, and the lilting voice of the ZNN reporter coming from the plasma screen. "_Naval authorities have confirmed the arrest of Navy Hospital Corpsman Second Class Jason Stemplinski and Army Specialist Adam Jenkins in the abduction of Dr. Alyse Aachen, a Navy physician deployed to Afghanistan and the wife of reporter and novelist Peter Kirkan. Both were enlisted medical personnel who had worked with Dr. Aachen at Camp Phoenix, outside Kabul, Afghanistan. There is no word yet as to why Stemplinski and Jenkins held Dr. Aachen hostage, although it is rumored that it has to do with her husband's success as a novelist. Ironically, the two medics were not arrested as a result of the investigation into Dr. Aachen's kidnapping, but were found incidentally during a search of the base after it came under attack. The Navy's Judge Advocate General Corps has not yet formally charged the two medics, but Mark Coldren, our correspondent in Afghanistan, is sure that both are facing dishonorable discharge and life imprisonment in a federal penitentiary. Dr. Aachen is reported to be unharmed and is taking two weeks of R&R leave at an undisclosed location with her husband before she returns to her duties at Camp Phoenix. Reporting from ZNN headquarters, this is Alexa Dias._"

"Naval authorities," DiNozzo scoffed as he hung up the phone and rose from his chair. "Why is 'Naval Criminal Investigative Service' so hard for these people?"

"Could be worse," Gibbs replied, not looking up from his computer screen. "They could have given credit to the FBI."

"Guess that's a good point, Boss." Gibbs finally looked up, and frowned at the sight of his senior field hefting a large duffle bag onto his shoulder.

"Going somewhere, DiNozzo?"

"Just got word that the medical transport lands at Andrews in fifteen minutes," he replied. Ziva had called him from Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany to inform him of her travel plans—ironically, the fastest way home was also the least direct; she caught a MEDEVAC flight from Kabul to Landstuhl, and then hopped on a critical care transport flight with injured soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines bound for the various military hospitals in Washington, DC.

"And it takes luggage to pick Ziva up from the airfield?"

Now it was DiNozzo's turn to frown, then grinned as he realized the piece of information Gibbs was missing. "Both sets of leave documents are in your email," he informed the older man. He never would have thought it would be that easy, but Vance signed the forms without question, stating that since both Tony and Ziva missed their leave for the case, that it was only fair they get it back. The airlines had been similarly accepting of the circumstances and issued new tickets with only a slight fee.

He paused in front of Gibbs' desk for a moment, a small piece of paper in his hand. "Military physicians and former scout snipers…stranger things have happened." Gibbs rolled his eyes, knowing was DiNozzo was hinting. The younger agent's eyes fell to that card he was holding before handing it over to his boss. "Mail service put this in my box by mistake," DiNozzo said as an explanation. "Never did understand why the Army would paint one of their hospitals pink, even if it is in Hawaii." He let that comment sink in for a second before giving the briefest of smiles. "See you next week, Boss."

DiNozzo was in the elevator before Gibbs allowed himself to look down at the postcard in his hand. He flipped it over and read the brief message there, scrawled in a familiar penmanship, before opening his desk drawer and dropping it in, where the card with the image of a hospital thousands of miles away joined two years worth of similar pieces of mail.

He closed the drawer before reaching down and collecting his bag, taking a moment to pack everything he needed for home into it. Without another glance back, he turned off his desk lamp and headed for the elevator. The case was over; it was time to go home.


	45. Chapter 45: Epilogue

**Consequences of Love and War: Chapter 45 - Epilogue**

* * *

**December**

Peter Kirkan wrapped his towel around his waist before stepping out of the shower, grinning as his eyes fell on a sight he would never get tired of—namely, the sight of his wife wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater and a pair of panties and nothing else. She still hadn't registered the sound of the shower being turned off over the noise of her hairdryer, which is why she jumped a good six inches when he stepped up behind her, moving her still-damp hair aside to kiss the base of her neck. "God, Pete!" Alyse exclaimed, turning the jet of hot air to his face for a second with a laugh. "Stop. Go get dressed. We're already running late."

"Are you absolutely sure that we have to go out for dinner?" he asked with a grin. "We could just stay in."

"In that case, I'm leaving it up to you to explain to Jess, Bryan, Ellie, and Wyatt why they drove down from Baltimore for a dinner we didn't show up to."

He grinned again as he headed for the master bedroom, stopping for a moment to silently watch her from a safe distance, where she couldn't blast him with that hairdryer again. He always thought so, from the moment he first saw her, but she looked amazing. She had regained a few of the pounds she lost in Afghanistan—he'd never be stupid enough to say that to her, of course—her hair was again thick and shiny and a little bit longer than she wore it before she left, her smile quick and her eyes always bright. People who didn't know her very well assumed that it must be an act, that nobody could go through what she did and still have a generally good outlook on life. For Kirkan and their friends, none of it came as a surprise; that was Alyse. She didn't see the point in not enjoying herself.

And yet, even now, months after she returned from her deployment, there were moments he still couldn't believe she was here, and other moments he had to remind himself that she was ever gone. During her initial re-entry into normal life, she seemed to be moving in fast forward, trying to fit a year's worth of activities into as short of time as possible: miles upon miles ran on the Capital Crescent Trail, trips to the state of Washington to visit her parents and brother, a brief stay in Texas to see his mother, Monday night dinners at Olazzo without fail and inevitably lasting over three hours, running the Army 10 Miler in October and Marine Corps Marathon in November—where all of that running paid off; for the first time in the years that they had been running that race together, she beat him, crossing the finish line almost seven minutes before him. He attributed it to her training. She teased that he was showing his age. And while all of this running and re-immersing herself in her life was happening, they were also spending more hours than Kirkan cared to think about with Wyatt and Ellie Reynolds, who returned from the Philippines less than two weeks before Alyse came back from Afghanistan, sitting at restaurants they had always wanted to try, comparing the stories and events of their respective deployments. It was during one of those dinners that, for the first time, he started talking about his own war, a decade before any of the other three joined the military, where his job was to take lives instead of saving them. Somehow, for reasons he couldn't begin to comprehend, hearing his own voice describe the heat and the sweat and the smell of the burning oil fields; the sounds of crude and childish jokes and pranks that traveled from cot to cot, foxhole to foxhole; the frustration at not knowing what he was doing or the sensation that it was all a strange dream—it was those things that made him realize why people like Alyse and Jess and Colleen and the Reynoldses were there and why they did what they did, and that their battles were no less difficult or obscure than his own had been.

And it was after one of those dinners that he brought his laptop out to the couch, where Alyse was curled up watching an episode of one of her favorite TV shows on the DVD of the season she had missed, that he began to write. It still wasn't nonfiction, but it was the first time he had ever written anything set in 1991, and started with a conversation about a piano recital on a cassette tape, between a young and naïve scout sniper and the gunnery sergeant who taught him everything he knew.

A release date still hadn't been finalized for his fifth novel, and Lyndi Crenshaw was already gushing excitedly about the few chapters he had given her of the sixth.

Alyse was still finishing her make-up when he finished dressing, which he knew gave him enough time to at least get a few bills paid before she would be ready to go. Before he had money, he thought it would make everything simpler; now that he had some, he realized that while he could buy nicer things, in the end it just meant that he had more to keep track of.

"Hey, Allie," he called out. "Did we donate $100,000 to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation?"

"Yes," she replied from right over his shoulder before kissing him on the cheek, giving no explanation and making it obvious he wasn't going to get one. "Ready to go?"

Olazzo was only a few blocks from their condo, but with the cold December air, both felt frozen throughout by the time they arrived. Their usual waiter waved at them from the back of the restaurant and gestured toward the table by the fake fire in the back—away from the cold air from the door, making it the best table this time of year—where Jess Ting, Bryan Lindemann, and Colleen O'Conner were already waiting.

"About time," Jess said dryly. "Unexpected delays at home?"

"Nope," Alyse replied cheekily as she shrugged off her wool coat. "Just a lot of the expected ones. We're celebrating, after all." She grinned as Jess rolled her eyes. "Where are Mr. and Mrs. Punctual?"

"Isn't that Dr. and Dr. Punctual?" Ellie Reynolds asked as she approached the table. "Sorry about that," she continued as Wyatt helped her out of her coat, revealing her just-noticeable pregnancy, "my fault."

"Trauma surgery fellow," Alyse said, pointing at Wyatt. "And preventive medicine slacker. Nice try, Elisabeth, but you can't cover for your husband this time."

"Actually, it really was her fault," Wyatt said as leaned over the table to grab the bottle of wine, pouring himself a generous glass before taking a seat. "Ft. Leonard Wood."

"Adenovirus outbreak," the other doctors all said in unison, earning a grin and a shrug from the tall blond. With the exception of her year in the Philippines, she had been responsible for the outbreak investigation among the basic trainees at the Missouri base every year since she was a third-year resident.

Jess didn't even wait for them to finish their greetings before holding up her wine glass in a semblance of a toast. "In honor of our two west coast Washingtonians—Alyse for being selected for a pulmonary and critical care fellowship next year, and Ellie for, well, successfully working fewer hours than anyone else and still being gainfully employed, we ordered a couple bottles of Washington wine," she said. "Sorry that you can't partake, Ellie, but you're the one who chose to procreate." Kirkan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. When Alyse found out that Ellie was pregnant, she realized that her former college roommate must have gotten pregnant while still on anti-malarial medications - and possibly while still deployed, although Kirkan doubted the Reynolds would be _that_ careless - and spent a good half an hour muttering to herself about how perfectly that fit into Ellie's history of irresponsible behavior, and if anybody knew Elisabeth Kaibel Reynolds' behavior, it would probably be her best friend since they were eighteen. "And in honor of Pete selling the rights to Book Two so some producer somewhere can make a movie, the Kirkan-Aachen family is picking up the check."

That got a laugh out of everyone, as well as joking thanks from around the table. "I'm sure they're going to need a one-legged man, Bryan, if you're interested in trying your hand at acting," Kirkan commented

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks, Pete," Lindemann said with a laugh. "Congrats, by the way. To both you and Dr. Aachen."

"It's Kirkan now, actually," Alyse corrected. "That only took the Navy about three months to process. I never would have thought that they would give me a harder time than the American Medical Association, but, well, there's nothing like government efficiency."

"I didn't know you were going to change it," Colleen commented. As the first among them married—and then promptly divorced—she had an exhaustive argument against changing surnames, which they all ignored.

"I'm considering it hostage insurance for my next deployment," Alyse said dryly.

"Changing names is a bitch," Ellie said from the other end of the table, ignoring Alyse's comment. "And it took about five months for the Army to process that, too." She rolled her eyes. "And it sucks, because I had a really cool last name, and now it's Reynolds."

"You can go back to Kaibel if it means that much to you," Wyatt said in reply.

They continued their light-natured ribbing and catching up, their conversation covering everything from Wyatt's and Jess' tales of what they had seen in their trauma fellowships at Baltimore Shock/Trauma, to Alyse's complaints of the 'Armification of her hospital' after Walter Reed and National Naval combined to form Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in September, to Colleen's stories about her daughter and musings about how she was thinking about getting back together with her ex-husband (which got an emphatic 'no!' from everyone else at the table), to Ellie's grumblings about how difficult it was getting to use the rowing machine at the gym, which for the former University of Washington crew member and NCAA national competitor was probably the biggest downside to being pregnant.

It wasn't until the waiter brought their main dishes that Alyse noticed something that made her frown. "Bryan, did you get your right and left confused this morning?" she asked. The former Army captain frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Your West Point ring. You always wear it on your left—," she cut herself off, her eyes widening in realization before snapping over to Jess. She didn't give the surgeon a chance to react before launching herself across the table and grabbing her friend's left hand. "And that is most definitely _not_ a West Point ring!" she said triumphantly at the sight of the diamond engagement ring.

"I figure since Jess isn't wearing hers on her left, that I won't, either," Bryan explained before his face broke out into a wide grin. "Besides, I'm done being married to the Army. It was an abusive relationship, and the divorce cost me a leg. I'm just lucky that it didn't cost me an arm as well."

"I think it was more that the leg caused the divorce than vice versa," Kirkan commented. "Congrats, guys. Seriously. It was only what, a decade and a half in the making?"

"It just took me a while to convince her that I'm still quite the catch, even with only one leg," Bryan said with a grin. "Fifth time's a charm, I guess." He pulled Jess close to him and kissing her cheek.

"Oh, please," Jess scoffed. "You were drunk for at least two of those, one was post-coital—"

"Come on, Bryan," Wyatt scoffed. "You know they never take anything that's said after sex seriously."

Jess grinned triumphantly at him before continuing. "And one was during youngster year, so I was just as capable of turning you down when you had two flesh-and-blood legs. And before anyone asks, yes, I am changing my name." She rolled her eyes. "My current med students honestly think that they're the first to call me 'Major Thing' behind my back. And you three," she said, pointing at the women. "Lime green bridesmaid dresses. With ruffles. And little hats."

"Oh, good," Ellie said dryly. "I was worried that you were going to renege on your promise to make us all look absolutely horrible."

"Punishment, Reynolds. It's punishment. For all the jokes about college sweethearts."

"You _still_ make fun of me for dating Wyatt!" Ellie protested.

"Well, he is a bit of a tool," Jess replied.

"And he's not drunk enough to not be listening," Wyatt shot back as he poured himself another glass of wine. "Close, though. Good thing my wife's too knocked up to drink and can drive me home. You guys getting married at West Point?"

"Yeah," Jess said with a nod. "Which means that you _will_ be in uniform and there _will_ be a sword arch. And don't think I don't mean you, too, Pete."

"It's been twenty years since I wore Dress Blue Charlies, so I'm pretty sure that'll be a no-go," Kirkan replied. "Besides, I was an enlisted grunt. They no trusted me with sharp stuff."

"Just sniper rifles," Bryan commented with a grin.

"Oh, yeah," Jess said, a teasing and almost challenging glint in her dark eyes. "I keep forgetting you were just a grunt."

"Oh, great," Alyse muttered under her breath as she watched her husband slowly and purposefully place his wine glass on the table before leaning forward toward Jess.

"I wasn't _just_ a grunt," he informed her, a similar teasing look in his eyes to the one Jess just had. "I am a scout sniper of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the United States Marine Corps. I was created by the vision of Lt. Colonel William "Wild Bill" Whaling. I evaded detection from enemy forces for over nine days and provided the reconnaissance that made D-Day possible. I—"

Knowing that her husband could—and would—recite the entire history of the Scout and Sniper Company, Alyse stopped him the only way she knew how. With both hands on his face, she turned his head toward her and kissed him—hard. Their friends erupted in laughter and wolf whistles before she pulled away, a triumphant smile on her face. "If I had known it was that easy to get him to shut up, I never would've subjected myself to a first-person recitation of the history of 1st Recon," Bryan said, amused.

"You're cute, Bryan, but not that cute," Jess replied.

Kirkan chuckled as he took another sip of his wine, beginning to feel the pleasant warmth of however much of the cabernet he had been drinking. He used his free hand to lightly trail his fingers over Alyse's lower back under her sweater, making her turn to him and arch her eyebrows teasingly before returning to her discussion—which sounded more like an argument to him—with Jess about the need to surgerize one of Alyse's patients. Like he did whenever they started speaking doctor, he tuned them out, letting his eyes wander over the other patrons in the restaurant.

And nearly spit out his wine in surprise when a familiar face walked in.

He knew he shouldn't stare, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, standing in the doorway. The former gunnery sergeant scanned the room, and then his eyes stopped, and a small but honest smile appeared on his face as he began walking forward. Kirkan followed Gibbs' eyes to a woman sitting at a table for two against the faux-plaster wall, long straight hair that looked red in the restaurant's dim lights hanging down her back, a bottle of wine on the table and a BlackBerry in her hand. She glanced up just before Gibbs got to her table and grinned. Kirkan obviously couldn't hear what he said to her, but whatever it was, it made her smile and roll her eyes and Gibbs chuckle before he kissed her cheek and take the seat across from her.

"Peter Alexander Kirkan." He blinked in surprise at Alyse's insistent tone and use of his full name, and knew that she must have repeated his name a couple of times. Her eyes went to where his had been. "Someone you know?"

"That's Gibbs," he said with a nod. His wife's eyes widened, and he forgot that, although they had Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David over for dinner after Alyse returned from Afghanistan, she never met that NCIS agent who led the team behind her rescue. She moved to stand, but his hand on her shoulder stopped him.

"I want to thank him," she said softly.

"I think he's here with someone." Her eyes returned to Gibbs to see the older man trying to hold the menu at a distance where he could read it, and returned fully to her seat. "And he didn't do it to be thanked."

"I know," she said after a long pause. She smiled slightly and gave him a small kiss. "He's a Marine."

"Yeah," Kirkan replied, giving his former gunny one last look before returning his attention to the table and the friends gathered around it. "He is."

**The End**

* * *

_A/N 2: Yes, this time it is the end :) For those of you who wanted me to write something about Tony and Ziva's vacation, what they do in Puerto Rico has nothing to do with the story, and I don't write smut, so use your imagination all you want._

_There are endless thoughts running around my head for more stories to continue this series, but while I have no shortage of plot bunnies, I do have a shortage of time, so those might be a long time coming. While you wait, I recommend checking out _Lethal Fractures_ (which probably requires reading _Deep Lacerations_ first), as that fits in with this one, a couple of months after it ends (well, between chapter 44 and the epilogue). Happy reading, and I will 'see' you again when time allows :)_


End file.
